Now the Dragons are Gone
by SomeSod
Summary: Harkon, Miraak and Aldiun are dead. Ulfric Stormcloak's corpse lies in an unmarked traitor's grave as Elisif the Fair rules from the Blue Palace, Queen of Skyrim by the will of The Divines, and the might of the Imperial Legions. With mature content and adult themes throughout as our exhausted heroes try to return to their previous lives in a world which no longer needs them.
1. Chapter 1: Now the War is Over

**Chapter One: Now the War is Over.**

**Erik I**

Erik looked out uneasily across the endless expanse of the Whiterun plains from the back of his horse and sighed, slightly re-adjusting his posture to somehow find a way of making the saddle more comfortable. The plains offered nothing to distract him, a huge rolling expanse of wheat filled farmers' fields bound by rough drystone walls, scattered forests and rolling heather-purpled hills. They were following a meandering dirt track, bound on its left side by a deep, small burn. A family of half a dozen mudcrabs chittering away on its pebbled banks, claws raised in warning at their intrusive passage. The sound of zipping dragonflies hummed in the wind, as all the smells of nature hung on the air of a summer afternoon. The only signs of civilisation discovered by following the scattered tracks from isolated farmer cottages to lonely noble hunting lodges, dotted between the small game-filled copses growing beneath the endless sky.

In his isolation his thoughts turned inwards. If he was honest with himself, he would say that so far becoming the squire of Dragonborn was something he regretted. It was not that he was ungrateful for the opportunity- he had seen the competition for the role. He had assured his father of his desire and had been most genuine in his gratitude when he received the prize-it was the boredom, the unending labour, the ingratitude and the company which had quickly tarnished his esteem for this position. Most of all, he felt a little betrayed and embarrassed at how his father had allowed him to believe this was something it wasn't.

His father had always encouraged his tutors to beat him whenever his half-finished pages of arithmetic were returned, their margins filled with doodled stick figures of bellowing Nordic tongues and terrified, broken Dunmer mixed scraps of quoted doggerel from the epics. His studious brothers and sisters sat smirking in their house's library at how the tables had turned once Erik was out of the training yard. Now here he sat beside a group of legendary heroes. The static predictability of home had bored him. Out here though it was tediousness of a difficult, different sort, like home but twisted. The group always jumping randomly and with whiplash speed from monotonous boredom filled with their childish taunts to sudden, brutally pragmatic, professionalism with a promise of violence at the drop of a hat. An exhaustingly unpredictable experience.

He turned away from the plains, and looked at the broad backs of the riders in front of him, merrily chatting to their neighbours, ignorant of his silent misery. Beyond them, far to the front he could see the backs of Aela and Durag, scouting their route on horseback, weapons to hand.

"Do you want to hear a joke?" the blond man asked the housecarl to his left, looking past her at stream and the clattering claws of its inhabitants.

"No." Lydia grunted through a mouthful of dried meat.

"What about you?" He asked turning the other way, not discouraged in the slightest.

"…. sure." the long-suffering sigh came from the brown-haired man to his right, face shaded by a battered peasants straw hat.

"Why did the mudcrab refuse to share his dinner?" Beren asked his brother.

"…. why?" He shrugged.

"Because he was shellfish!" looking left and right and taking more delight in the agonised expression of his friends than the humourless punchline.

Lydia and Beric both grimaced in pain, shook their heads in weary exasperation and looked away over the empty plains to their sides where Durag and Serana rode a hundred yards out on each flank.

"…I can't believe that after two years of war no-one managed to kill you." Beric grumbled.

"Or that he didn't learn a better sense of humour." Lydia put in, having gulped her food down to get a word in edge-wise.

"He's never learnt anything the hard way that's why. When I joined the Guard, no-one laughed at my jokes. Now, after years in the Guard and the Legion my sense of humour is razor sharp, honed through practice and endless verbal abuse. Beren never learned."

"That's because I'm perfect the way I am. Beloved of the Gods. Blessed. Unique." The blond man said, striking his chest with playful pride, ruddy cheeks glowing.

"We've Mara's mercy to thank for that." Came Lydia's stage whisper.

"Besides, you must have needed to find something useful to do while standing guard on market stalls or waiting for scout reports. Must have been awful." Said Beren, pretended to commiserate.

"Nah wonderful, know why?"

"Why?"

"Couldn't hear your shit jokes."

"Lydia laughs at my jokes."

'She's sworn to carry your burdens, your lack of humour amongst them." He said over his shoulder, head turned and eyes watching the ground to their right.

Beren mulled this over, and raised a finger in mock accusation. "Could be you needed to learn the hard way, it could also be because you're a Praefect now. All that power gone to your head. Isn't it interesting how most important person in the room is also the funniest?"

Beric turned back around briefly "Why didn't anyone laugh at your joke then?"

"He's not that important." Lydia put in with a shrug to keep the argument going as she watching the pair of scouts ahead.

Erik once again stopped listening to their squabbling as it had once again degraded into cheerful yelling at this latest betrayal. He remembered the first time he had seen The Last Dragonborn, almost a year ago. He had come riding hard to the then-Jarl Elisif at her court in the Blue Palace on his road-dusted white stallion to announce the death of Aldiun. Erik had listened from a shadowed corner, entranced word by word of the story that every man and woman present would remember until their dying day.

Of entrapping a dragon in Whiterun, broken and bound with the power of his Thu'um. Bargaining with Odahviing, riding dragonback across the sky to a forgotten Draugr mountain crypt. Fighting single-handed through its unending undead denizens, before taking a hidden portal to Sovngarde. There battling Tsun, God of Trials, on the whalebone bridge. Entering the Hall of Valour to rouse honoured souls from restful revels. Rallying to his cause the swords of countless Nord heroes of old, and finally, slaying Aldiun World-Eater.

It has seemed impossible. In this unheroic age of assassination and civil-war, politicking Jarls and king slaying traitors. Like one of Ysgramor's five-hundred companions had simply sprung to life and walked down from the tapestry in his bed-chamber, Thu'um slipping from his lips, scattering Falmer to flight. Yet there he stood. Stormcrown, Ysmir's Chosen, The Dragon of the North, with the whole Court of Solitude-nobles and ambassadors, soldiers and servants, still and silent. These sober, cold, logical men and women of money and the moment enraptured by the living myth, not a single voice raised in question or disbelief. The cheers that had followed him out of The Palace as they crowded round their hero, bells peeling across the city as people danced crying in the streets as news flowed from the palace like a wineskin. Erik had talked of little else to his father for weeks afterwards, his brothers and sisters crowding round, envious at missing the spectacle which was already being spun into epics. It was then that he had unwitting laid the seeds for his father to send him away.

It had started well enough. It was after the second time The Dragonborn had returned to the court, little more than couple of months ago. Shortly after the fall of Windhelm on the 17th of Mid Year after a nearly three-month long siege, every Jarl, new and old, had gathered in Solitude. First in the Blue Palace for the Moot and then to swear fealty to their new High Queen in the Throne Room following her unanimous election, the Solitude Thanes standing attendance on their Queen to witness the proceedings. His father presented him during the Coronation feast afterwards to The Last Dragonborn, hands resting proudly on his shoulders. They were hardly alone in this; the room was filled with ambitious young men after the Beren's last squire had drowned in the breach during the Siege of Windhelm a few months earlier.

He introduced himself as he had been taught, barely tripping over his words in a rush of nerves as the Dragonborn shook him by the hand, introduced himself as Beren Stone-Strider, asked after his health, his swordplay, his family and then politely took his leave from his father, whisked off by his brother to meet another attendee. Later, his father had asked if he would offer his service to the Last Dragonborn, for despite his low-birth and common manner he was a man of great honour, riches and position, and there was glory, fame and wealth to be won in the service of such a man for himself and his family. What boy did not dream of that? He eagerly accepted.

So far, there had been no wealth, honour or glory. He had expected as the Dragonborn's squire to be wined and dined by eager mobs as they had in Solitude, supping on their finest vintages and good white bread wherever they went as in Solitude. Instead he had spent more time swallowing the bitter dust of the road and drinking in the views. Almost a month on the road, traveling from Solitude to Whiterun, sitting in a rattling cart or else, like now, enduring the thigh-aching eternity of horse-back riding. Always staying close behind the Dragonborn, watching as the terrain slowly changed from the urban bustle of Solitude. Passing from Haafingar's well populated terraced hillside villages, mountain plateaus and valleys to the barren expanse of Whiterun's plains.

They had left Solitude on the first of Last Seed with almost fifty people by his count, mostly carters, teamsters, guards and servants surrounding the core of the Dragonborn's party, not including Balgruuf's detachment who had ridden with them at first. At its heart was Beren and Beric. The two brothers were as alike as chalk and cheese. The younger brother Beren was a Nord's Nord by reputation and physicality. A fierce and skilled fighter with bow, sword and shield as befitted The Harbinger of the Companions. Barrel chested and broad shouldered, tall with his rosy face framed by a pair of warrior's braids in his long blond hair and mischievous blue eyes crinkled by crow's feet. His good humour and constant movement radiated energy and confidence. By comparison the older Beric was a still, melancholy figure. Tall like his brother, his skill was as a battlemage. His blue eyes were keen and cold, a scholar's thirst for knowledge mixed with a soldier's experienced, off-hand brutality. He lacked his brother's muscle mass, thinner though not lanky with a wry strength in his athletic frame. His dark brown hair was a boyish mop growing out of a legionnaire's cut, a style more Imperial or Breton than Nordic.

Around them swirled a large ever-changing group of companions. Riding with them now was Aela the Huntress, a red headed woman from the Companions already famous across Skyrim for her skill as a tracker and archer who frequently rode alongside her husband, where they made a cheerful couple. Meanwhile Beric often spent his time in detailed discussion on money, magic and politics with Serana, a pale, raven haired Nord with pointed features and a rather dark reputation as a necromancer. Erik had been told variously that she came from either Solstheim or the islands to the far north, and was warned to keep his distance from the outwardly friendly through reserved woman, spending his time instead next to Durag or Lydia.

Durag was a limping Orc from some unpronounceable stronghold and an extended and confusing family. He rather fancied himself as an expert on all things mechanical and Dwemer, and would chat with him for hours on these subjects with only the slightest encouragement. He had been particularly proud of his replacement clockwork Dwemer foot that he had created on models sent from a friend in Morrowind. Erik enjoyed the novelty of Durag and time he spent with him even as his eyes watered, as Durag seemed to radiate the noxious smell of burnt hair, grease and oil, odours that seemed baked into his skin and clothes. Finally, there was Lydia, the infamously laconic housecarl in the service of Beren, who took responsibility for training and the repair and maintenance of weapons and armour.

While on the road, he had pestered them constantly for war stories of the last two years to which they offered only awkward, embarrassed reactions and sparse details. He learnt far more when the party clustered around the firepit at night drinking, singing, joking and chatting in their chairs as they poked sticks into the fire. Their conversations filled with references to past events, allusion to now famous battles, in-jokes, obscure or famous people and places, all of which were as fascinating as they were frustrating. He disliked interrupting to asking questions to clarify, as it often slowed or stopped the flow of the conversation.

In this way they had moved sedately in a large train of carts and wagons. With them rising late and stopping early, the Jarl's party had quickly left them far behind at Dragonbridge, moving with Balgruuf's almost indecent haste to get back to Whiterun. The Dragonborn and the rest of his little party instead seemed to thrive in their seemingly never-ending enjoyment of the boringly peaceful road.

He had hoped that that would have changed when messengers suddenly met them on the road, racing hard from Whiterun with the news that Jarl Balgruuf's son had disappeared, presumed kidnapped just days after his father had returned. Snatched from his horse while hunting, the kidnappers demanding a ransom in exchange for his safe return. A messenger had been sent with the ransom demand, the blood-stained parchment wrapped around the boy's severed little finger. Beric had read the note, and the letter from Jarl Balgruuf with a darkening expression, before handing it to his brother with a muttered frown. Beren read the letter to them. A handsome reward was promised for the boy's safe return.

A madness of rushed preparation followed, carts stripped of armour and weapons hurriedly stowed in saddle-bags or placed on the backs of two packhorses. The roughly repacked sedate carts and their large escort ordered away as their small party cut off the main road and into the wild. Sharp swords now sheathed and belted over rust and blood-stained gambeson, worn beneath faded traveling cloaks, jarring cart seats now exchanged for horses ridden with bulging saddlebags. Three exhausting, seemingly never-ending days followed, filled from before sunrise to after nightfall riding horses and listening to dirt-poor peasant-farmers, herders and hunters as he was told to hang back with the pack horses and their minders. Observing from afar at the muffled manner of how they did business-a bribe paid here, a tall tale listened and laughed at, and then serious faces and pointed questions about names, places, numbers as they slowly and steadily built up a picture of the kidnappers- details becoming more and more certain with each step. He felt guilty, he should have been excited but the group seemed determined by unspoken consent to exclude him, and none of this seemed glamourous, or brave, or noble.

He half-heard the shouts and yells up ahead, but it was with a loud "Good Afternoon!" that Erik was snapped out of his thoughts as Beren called out in his common Whiterun accent to presumably another one of the endless peasants making their living on the plains. He shifted his horse round to the left, out of the order of march from behind the others, and saw Durag and Aela had their swords to hand as a hooded and cloaked individual crawled out of the heather bush into which they had jumped in a hasty and poorly thought-out attempt to hide. Beren rode up carefully waiving with his right hand in greeting, seemingly unconcerned by his friends with their drawn swords. His Housecarl Lydia and brother Beric drawing up beside him to his left and right, their own hands hovering over their hilts, while Serana and Durag had reined in waiting on their distant positions. Erik urged his horse forwards before he could be drawn back or forced out, drawing level with the others. He sat beside Lydia, wanting to get a good look this time at the woman they had caught attempting to evade them and missing her subtle attempts to catch his eye.

"Afternoon," the Nord huntress grunted in a Riften accent. He looked at her with curiosity, though she would not meet their eyes. Strung longbow held low at her side, a pack bulged with rabbits on her back as she carefully attempted to pull her cloak free with one hand from where it was caught on a heather branch, causing her hood to slip off her head, revealing dirty blonde hair with a warrior's braid. She was concentrating on her patched and holed cloak, taking far more care for the garment then its wear deserved or implied, its original colours so faded they were impossible to tell. She was too poorly dressed to be a huntress or gamekeeper he decided, and the slightly guilty expression on her sun-tanned face suggested that she had not been expecting this sort of company, a conclusion assisted by her unwillingness to relinquish her weapon and use two hands to free herself. A poacher then, or a bandit! He thought, sizing her up. He felt a rush of excitement as he realised this was the first time he was face to face with an armed enemy, and his hand crept slightly towards his sword, just in case.

"We're looking for a pack of bandits, kidnappers. might be that you've seen them in Halted Stream Camp. A half day's ride northeast of here. Merchant we met said they'd set up camp there three days ago." Beren announced with a smile and an easy manner.

She shook her head. "I don't want any trouble. If people knew I talked to people on the road, might end up badly for me." She mumbled, not looking up as she tugged at the garment.

"Don't want any trouble as in you don't want to tell the truth-So they are there then." Beric interjected, his cold eyes fixing onto her. With a rip her cloak came free and she turned, stumbling away from them. Aela and Durag moved closer in response, surrounding her, swords held low and still, shining in the sun, bringing her awkward stumble to a halt. She turned around again and looked up at Beric to snap back, and instead paled under his glare, though it did not dissuade her tongue.

"They might be, might be that they've moved. 'Suppose it's worth something to you."

Erik felt his rage bubble up inside him at her open contempt of them. A poacher, outnumbered and without escape, back-chatting The Dragonborn, caught red-handed and now _trying to shake them down for coin!_ He kicked his horse forwards and drew his sword with a rasp.

"How about you answer his questions, before we start asking about where you got all that." He poked her pack with the tip of his sword. She reacted quickly, flat of her hand slapping the blade away and dancing out of reach.

Lydia next to him sighed, reach out and grabbed the bridle of his horse, pulling him back awkwardly.

"Stay out of this! Watch and you might learn something." She hissed with unexpected fury. Erik felt himself blushing as all eyes turned onto him.

"My fellow Nord." Beren had pulled out a coin, and was holding the glinting gold in the sun and refocusing attention onto him.

"You're right to worry about those you might meet on the road, it would seem. Pay no mind to the boy." He tossed the Septim to the poacher, who snatched from the air. She bit it enthusiastically, before it disappeared into a grimy fur pouch on her belt. It was doubtless more money than she saw in three months.

Beren dismounted, and moved closer to the woman, patting his snorting horse and chatting away cheerfully as if renewing a long-lapsed friendship.

"Good hunting in these parts?" he asked with an inquisitive look on his face.

"I get by." Looking furtively around her at the close ring of blank-faced riders.

"Where do you go?"

"All over the plains" she grunted now reluctantly returning her attention to Beren.

"How has the war affected you?"

'Fewer guards, more bandits- deserters and the like. Some Stormcloaks from the battle.'

"I was there. I'm surprised the Stormcloaks ran this way."

"They ran all over. Most for home, chased by your Imperial cavalry and a few Breton knights. Some slipped away to raid, never went back." She shrugged.

"And they in turn became bandits." Beren finished for her. She nodded in agreement.

"Most turned to poaching or banditry rather than surrender and be shamed by their families for taking the Dragonborn's mercy. They're desperate, hungry people. Too proud to give up, too scared to go home. Makes it difficult out here."

"Who do you sell to? Out here?" he said looking about curiously at the sparsely populated plain.

"Farmers, a few merchants here and there. Usually I try to make it to Whiterun, the city always needs meat and they pay in coin, at six coppers a rabbit. Whereas most farmers trade in goods and are shrewd misers to boot. Sometimes they set their dogs on me, or tell the local quality after I go."

Beren nodded encouragingly at this.

"Well, we've been on the road for a while now, hunting a few of these bandits. They've become desperate, taken a little boy, cut him up and threatened to do worse if his Dad doesn't pay up. We'll buy a few of your rabbits for our pot tonight for...' he thought a bit, '…six coppers a rabbit, for five rabbits- giving you two silver jarls and six copper thanes." His hand patting a bulging purse which tinkled a merry promise on his belt.

"What about the information you wanted?" She mumbled, seemingly torn between getting a good deal and simply wanting this whole embarrassment done.

"Market price is six in Whiterun as you said, which we match, and you get the gold as well, which we'll say is your price. You get a reason to talk to us, rid yourself of some of your ill-gotten gains, and we forget we ever met you, should the local quality come calling." Beren spoke calmly as he patted Arngeir's nose reassuringly, who was snorting in alarm at a fly. He seemed to speak this sentence without any particular worry, as though commenting on another one of Serana's anodyne observations about the weather. The woman bit her lip and looked up awkwardly at Beric, staring impassively down at her, hand atop his sword. She looked back to Beren nodded, radiating relief and seemingly glad of the chance to end this whole sorry affair.

"they're still there- I sold them a fine elk yesterday, thought they were miners at first. A dozen or more of 'em. Real brutes. Tried to pay me with counterfeit coin at first, and then they short charged me and chased me off. They had a little noble's boy with them, all trussed up in rope." She rattled this off quickly as she dumped her pack on the ground, pulled out the rabbits and snatched the coins out of Beren's hand the moment they appeared.

"Yeah, well we'll take care of that." Beric said with bored off-hand confidence. She looked back up, seemingly to make some sort of retort.

"I believe you will." She replied uneasily, catching his look.

Beric rode up to her and leant towards her from the back of his horse, which caused her to take a step back. He spoke to her in a low, earnest voice. "The Jarl of Falkreath is in need of a few new hunters and beaters, after his last hunt went awry. It might be a good idea to head south for a while, should find some good work this coming autumn with the start of the hunting season and the end of the war. It's a good place to start over."

"I'll do that." She nodded, and hurried away, not meeting their eyes.

She shouldered her pack and slipped quickly through the circle, avoiding their gaze and moving south quickly, not looking back. Lydia released her grip on his bridle and rode her horse away with an angry glare at him. Beren gave Beric a nod, who stirred, then quickly snapped out some orders and the party returned to their positions and left them behind, dirt stirring to dust in the wake of their hooves.

Beren finished administering to his horse and heaved himself up into his saddle and adjusted the reins in his hands. He said nothing, and sat quietly to Erik's left, hovering in his peripheral vision. Erik looked out of the corner of his eye over at Beren. His blue eyes were fixed on him, unblinking and emotionless, his friendly face still. Erik eyes flicked away, his face reddening with embarrassment and touched his feet to his horses' sides, following the others.

Quietly, Erik rode with Beren beside him, who was seemingly in no particular hurry. He felt the presence of him, the calm measuring gaze of the man simply waiting pricking the back of his neck. The distance between themselves and the others, created by the delay in setting off lengthened as their pace lagged. He watched the backs of the others, they were silent now, riding stiffly in their saddles, hands on hilts and heads swivelling as they constantly searched the terrain around them. He turned his head to the right, following Beric's gaze, looking across the plain. Serana was riding over there, and beyond, he had been told that Whiterun lay over the horizon, somewhere to their east. Now just two days ride from their ultimate destination, a hot bath and a good warm bed. He resisted looking to his left, where the quiet rider walked his horse along the dirt track, the horse's hooves turning over the ground, kicking the packed dirt and clattering on loose stones. The day stretched on towards nightfall, punctuated with the low buzzing of bees in the heather.

He felt awkward about the way they had reacted when he had drawn his sword and pushed forwards, the amount of money that had crossed hands to make her forget it. He was luckily, he supposed that she wouldn't even know who they were, so no word of his actions would be attached to the Dragonborn's name, or the bribes he paid to wandering criminals.

Was that lucky? He couldn't understand the hypocrisy of it, they were on their way to fight a band of kidnappers but allowed those who stole the food and property of others go unpunished. Food was not cheap, meat doubly so, and with the damages and dangers of recent times prime farmland was jealously guarded, and skilled gamekeepers in short supply as they fought violent little skirmishes. Yet it seemed that the Dragonborn was prepared to profit from crime when it suited him, and punished it when it did not. He looked at the bulging saddlebags on his horse. The party would hardly have starved without those rabbits.

Perhaps it was a question of survival, not honour, of _the practicalities _as his father would say. He considered their objective- they were paid to rescue a young boy almost his own age, not fight poachers. Out here, information was power, and that poacher, thought temporarily held prisoner, had held that power, power to force the dragonborn to bargain as he sought to secure the life of another. He was surprised at how mercenary that felt- that the worth of information for the life of another child to Beren was one golden septim, two silver jarls and six copper thanes. He glanced to his left again out of the corner of his eye, slowly turning his head, trying to pass it off as natural movement. There the Dragonborn sat on his white horse, steadily staring at him, looking unimpressed at his inability to meet his eyes.

The group had not treated him as a child in their interactions with him, merely as a stranger who was intruding into their close-knit world. Though not as a squire. They had stored their weapons and armour bound with oily rags in stout waterproof chests, and instead trusted him with only menial chores, and mostly left him look after himself with the other servant boys, telling him to wait, wait for Whiterun. He glanced slightly to his left. Beren was still riding quietly there, and he turned away and fought the emotion from his face.

The silence dragged on, wearing at him. He turned slightly again to glance casually at Beren in the corner of his eye. Unimpressed, red flushed, brows furrowed. Suddenly it all came out in a rush.

"Sir." He began nervously, turning to Beren and looking him full in the face.

"I would like to apologise for the way I behaved, just now." Hoping this would be over with quickly though sensing it was unlikely.

He looked over at Beren fully now. Beren's now unsmiling blue eyes were settled on him, fixed on him. Closer, he could see how crow's feet hugged still hugged them even when the smiles that had put them there had long since faded.

"Why did you feel the need to get involved at all?" Beren asked with a shake of his head, avoiding the apology for the moment.

"I was just…frustrated. Her behaviour was disrespectful, rude. It's not right! There are laws, and she was stealing food…Sir." His complaints trailed off awkwardly, biting back "and you're the Dragonborn" as he realised how pompous he sounded. Erik hesitated, but Beren stayed silent and allowed him to continue, and he continued in a rush.

"It's just…. I'm just trying to help, to understand. I'm here to maintain your weapons, be trained and fight at your side, like your squire did before. I don't do anything." He paused and took a deep breath to steady himself. "Sir, I'm just trying to understand. Why did we pay a bribe to a poacher? If you told her who you were, she would have told us everything to help! Besides, she was obviously guilty and the merchant already told us what we needed." He ended his sentence as Beren's face flashed red.

"At the moment though do you think us taking your views into consideration, us giving you more responsibility is justified?" Beren icily asked him. Erik flushed at this obvious bait and avoided answering. "Think about the bigger picture for a moment- we're here to save a child's life and you want us to make handless beggars out of every starving Stormcloak deserter. How much time do you think we have?"

"Again sir, I'm sorry. It won't happen again." He said, automatically with his head down.

Beren shook his head at that, and for the first time his face reddened with real barely contained anger, and he shook his head fiercely as he snapped at Erik with terrifying intensity. "I don't take that for a fucking second. Why are you sorry, and what for?"

Erik though for a moment.

"I'm sorry for how I acted without thinking…I didn't know how we would handle this. I should have watched and learned as Lydia said, or stayed away like before. I should have considered the bigger picture, as you said." He mumbled this, blinking rapidly and looking away over the horizon. He looked back as Beren mulled this over, and saw that he was still reluctant to let the matter rest.

"What would you have done if things had gone south?"

"Uh…pardon?" he said politely, gulping and trying to settle his nerves.

"If it had become a fight?"

"I would have killed her." He stated with certainty. He had a sword, and on horseback he could have easily ridden her down with the weight of his horse before she could have nocked arrow to bow.

"Have you killed anyone before?"

"No." Erik, embarrassed and awkward at the point-blank question.

"Have you ever seen anyone killed?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"The execution of the traitor Jarls. It was just before the Moot." Beren nodded at this.

"What happened?"

Erik hesitated, and then the story came out in an awkward rush.

"The Jarls were led through the city under heavy guard. They were wearing rags, blinking at the sunlight and the jeering crowd. They'd been imprisoned for weeks in the dungeons of Castle Dour, or so my father told me. I was with some of the other local boys, and we were had paid for a good view from the second floor of an apothecary to watch them come into the square. All the Jarls of Skyrim were present to observe. Once they were on the scaffold it was a little too far away to hear what was going on. Captain Aldis read out the judgement of the court. Then one by one they were taken to the block."

"Skald was dragged forwards first, and the crowd was silent. He shouted that Talos was smiling at him and some other things, then the crowd yelled back. Some jeered, some cheered his bravery. He walked to the block, spoke to the executioner and knelt and stretched out his neck. The first blow hit his shoulder and bit deep, and he screamed. The second hit his neck, which killed him though it didn't sever his head. The executioner pulled out his knife, and cut through the rest, and then showed the head to the crowd."

"Then Lahlia? Layla? The woman…she threw up and fainted while watching what happened to Skald. That made it easier for them. They dragged her body to the block, and her head came off in one blow. But it spun like a top and missed the basket, and the executioner chased it around the scaffold like a chicken. People were laughing."

"Then…Kovir?...went mad. He made a fight of it, and was struggling so much that more guards were called. In the end five people were holding all his limbs and the head still. The executioner….it was difficult to get close, to make it a clean blow. It took six or seven blows of the axe. Kovir screaming all the while."

"how did your friends react?" Beren asked, unmoved by the story, his eyes carefully searching Erik's face while his own face sat blank.

"Um…." He thought for a moment. "At the start, we were all yelling insults at the traitors. We cheered Skald's death- he died well. Layla and Kovir were disappointing, they had sent hundreds of people to their deaths, but couldn't face their own. Layla fainted, and cheated the executioner. Kovir, he could have done what Skald did. When that happened Embry threw up and the old apothecary scolded him for ruining her carpets. Vekel laughed a bit. Kanrik just watched."

"How did it make you feel?" Beren's blue eyes were drilling into him now.

"I…I don't really know sir. It was justice, wasn't it? That's the law. It's not nice but that's how things work. 'I was there to witness justice, and remember the price of turning traitor.'" He said with growing certainly, ending with a quote he had heard somewhere before from one of his tutors. Beren scoffed at this.

"Was one of the reasons why you wanted to become my squire to see justice, to enact it?"

"Yes sir."

"Then should I go and get the poacher back so I can cut her head off? So you can? Would that feel like justice to you?"

"I don't know sir." He said, evasive. Beren didn't seem particularly impressed by this, and his face flushed red. He snapped at him.

"You don't know? Why not? You were so eager to wave a sword around before to avenge my honour." He mocked the phrase as it left his lips.

"Sir, it's not the same-earlier the poacher could have fought back honourably, taken her wounds to the front and gone to Sovngarde. The other feels…indecent, like butchery." He argued back.

"Does it make a difference when you're cutting people up? You tried to provoke a fight from an outnumbered defenceless woman whose crimes you condemn, but when she refused to fight you thought her a coward and called for another to kill her all the same. You can choose your fights, to be fair. But once you're committed to the fight, you don't get to choose, it's all butchery. The other two jarls-you should think of their deaths- butchery or execution, that's how soldiers die. Unconscious drowning in the mud, or pulled down into the melee and knifed until their body stops twitching, until one side can't bear it anymore and they break and run. You honour the traitor Skald for going like a lamb to slaughter, and despise Laila and Korir who died who like real people. You can't even remember their fucking names."

Beren had the full measure of his wrath now, veins pulsing in his neck as he let loose, with his anger and rage.

"This isn't real to you, is it? You want a job? Do the one we first gave you. Stay out of the way, and stay alive all the way to Whiterun. When we get to Whiterun, that's when you'll get another chance, another job. But I warn you right now. I give second chances, sometimes even third chances when they're earned. But you haven't. You are on a tight leash, and if you fuck around like this again, that leash will be your noose."

Beren face was vivid red, his hand up and pointing at Erik's face. He waited for Erik to challenge him, to argue back. He didn't, ashamed and slightly confused at this tirade. With that, Beren twitched the reins and cantered his horse away, before things got completely out of hand. Behind him, Erik swallowed and blinked back tears uneasily. Reluctantly he kicked his horse into a canter and followed, careful to keep his distance.

"We camp there!" he shouted to the now distant backs of the others, pointing at a distant woodblock, some six or seven miles away. They reined in their horses and waited for the distance to close. 'Halted Stream camp is on the other side of the ridgeline. It'll be getting dark soon after we get there. We eat quickly, scout it, prove they're there. Then we're to work.'

* * *

**Author's Note**

Thanks very much for reading. This is my first real attempt at writing a story in a long time, although it's something I've been thinking about doing something like this for a while. My intention with this was to take some of storylines from the basic game which I was dissatisfied with and re-work them into a form I was happier with. This should give me an opportunity to practice my writing skills in terms of plot, character arcs etc- the fundamentals of writing.

Chapter 2 is written and will be released on 01/04/2019 which will give me a chance to edit it on the basis of your advice and feedback.

Hey HermitWitch thanks very much for taking the time to review!

I appreciate the feedback with the group- I spent a lot of time tinkering with the dialogue and their interactions. It was interesting writing Beren. He wears his emotions-good and bad- on his sleeve which has won him a lot of allies, and a lot of enemies. He also isn't in the best place right now, which doesn't help.

I'm glad that you enjoyed Erik, we'll get a bit more of a look into the reasons why he was chosen as a squire in the next couple chapters, and the tension that brings within the group. We'll also get a chance to see how his opinions evolve living with them.

Without giving too much away, while the LDB has a lot of power in terms of capability and reputation, he and Beric are not plugged into the structures and organisations of power which would make them long-term players in the way that Erik and his family are.

It will be interesting to see how those themes, their decisions, and the consequences will affect the story. Too often the interactions of personality and politics aren't explored in the depths they could be.

Greywolf93- thanks for reviewing.

Erik is a well-educated and well-polished product of Solitude- brought up by proximity to the refined court of the Blue Palace, the martial aspects of Castle Dour and the songs of the Bard's College. However, he lacks real life experience, and now he's in the care of two formerly orphan boys from the streets of Whiterun.

He's also going to struggle with the realisation that the future is more Cold War than Great War.


	2. Chapter 2: Swords in the Mist

**Chapter Two: Swords in the Mist. **

**Beric I**

Fully armed and armoured Beric slipped easily between the dense branches of the night darken woods and knelt by the sleeping form of his brother. He lay curled on the pine needle strewn ground, wrapped against the chill in a sleeping roll lightly spotted with the gathering dew of the coming dawn. He rested his hand on Beren's shoulder and shook him insistently, an urgent whisper hissing into the quiet air.

"Wake up- Aela and Serana are back from scouting."

Beren's eyes snapped open instantly from his uneasy sleep. His eyes slowly adjusting to the faint beams of light streaming through the trees from the waxing moons, he sat up blearily as Beric continued with what information Lydia had relayed to him.

"Three sentries, the rest are asleep and the rear entrance is un-guarded as Serana guessed. Everyone's gathering by the firepit for your orders."

"How long till dawn?" he asked as he threw back his blankets and furs with a groan of weary limbs, sitting up and half-blindly searching the dark ground with his hands for his boots and clumsy pulling them onto his feet.

"Durag reckons more than an hour, maybe two." Beric said standing up. He pointed towards the centre of the camp, back the way he had come. "Lydia's armouring up with the Squire, He'll be ready to help you into your kit shortly." Beren knuckled his eyes and nodded his thanks. Jumping up from his bedroll to force sleep from his limbs. He rolled his broad shoulders and stretched, stamped his feet and then quickly moved to the pack he had been using as a pillow, rolling his bedroll away neatly with the practiced ease.

Satisfied that Beren was awake, Beric turned his back on his brother, his footsteps a muffled swish on the forest floor as he walked towards the centre of camp. The extinguished fire pit was surrounded by small circle of cloak swaddled figures and a few still curled up sleeping on the ground, beyond was a roving sentry seconded from the Whiterun guard, patrolling their perimeter. There was ten in their party, a mix of warriors and the assorted hangers-on attracted by a potent mix of circumstance, convenience, myth and personality. All too suddenly the peace of the night was disturbed as Erik the squire came rushing by. He was blindly crashing through the branches and entangling undergrowth fit to wake the Divines, piled pieces of armour in his arms clattering against his cuirassed chest and almost tripping upon the greatsword just slipping through his grasp.

"Is The Dragonborn awake?" the boy asked, his features were chastened by his recent reprimand, but his enthusiasm was rekindled now that he finally had the chance to act as a squire.

Beric moved to hush him. " Yes. He's waiting for you." He pointed to what he knew would be for Erik the dark outline of a figure amidst the tangled pines pulling on his gambeson.

The 13-year-old boy tried to rush past, crashing through the silent night. Beric's arm shot out and stopped him, firmly but gently gripping him to prevent him from accidentally dropping his armful of weapons and armour, and leaned in close to whisper. The squire gulped and looked uneasily at the Dragonborn's brother, eyes watching warily under the brim of his helmet liner. Beric thought for a moment, taking in this spectacular display of eagerness and decided to give him the benefit of the doubt after the incident earlier that day.

"You're making too much noise rushing like that. It's good that you've put your armour on to be ready the protect the camp while we're gone, but don't rush about. It disturbs the troops when they see armed and armoured men, or even their leaders running around without a good reason, and sound carries further by night. Secondly, this is a skirmish, not a battle-help Beren with his armour, then put the greatsword back on the horse and grab some meat, bread and cheese for Beren's breakfast." He said to the boy in a quiet, kindly whisper.

"Yes sir." The boy nodded and muttered, chastened and now moving quietly and carefully to comply with his orders.

Beric walked into the circle that had gathered around the cold unlit firepit, and looked about their little crew of would-be rescuers. Lydia, fully armoured already in her layers of steel, leather and furs, was standing furthest on the left. With her sword belted at her waist and her shield rested against her knees on the ground, she was mechanically munching a hunk of bread and cheese, looking into the dark night and its shifting shadows with an unconcerned expression. Right of her was Durag, stood in his mix of mage robes and scavenger dwemer plate, Aetherial staff slung on his back as he fiddled with his crossbow, eyes cutting through the night curtesy of his enchanted googles, muttering to himself under his breath.

Directly opposite Beric, across the firepit was the returned Aela, stringing her longbow, needing no mage sight or night eye to carry out a skill she had been practicing since the age of eight. She stood half naked in her archaic armour despite the chilly night and billowing mist, Skyforged steel sword and quiver full of arrows belted securely at her waist, shield slung over her back. Serana stood beside her in the pre-dawn dark, like him wearing a worn and battered Dawnguard brigandine and gambeson over he traveling clothes, her elven arming sword and dagger belted on her waist. She greeted Beric amicably with a slight smile and a nodded 'Good morning' as he moved over to her side for a whispered chat.

"Morning. Haven't seen you since you left. Lydia said you were happy, did you find Frothar then?"

She smiled brightly in the dark, though only they could see it.

"Oh yes, they've been using the pit to trap mammoths for ivory- I climbed down, and found Frothar's cage about 30 feet on at the mouth of a cavern. I'm sure we can sneak in from the pit to him, though it won't be easy for him to sneak out quietly, or quickly if Beren's planned attack is delayed. Despite that I nearly tried to free him there and then, if it wasn't for the padlock and Bandits."

"Well I'm glad you waited for the rest of us. Probably would have been a little difficult for you all by yourself, holding off all those bandits single-handed." He teased, knowing she would never have been so rash though all the same secretly relieved that she hadn't taken the risk alone. Not now, not when there wasn't any need for those sorts of heroics any longer.

"Ouch, Such little faith in my abilities, I'm shocked. I hope you haven't been idle while I was away, doing all the real work."

Beric hesitated for a moment. "I spoke to Beren about Erik's little display earlier, and how he handled it." Beric said, casting his eyes around and lowering his voice. He flicked his eyes over and they shifted slightly away from the rest of the group.

"That must have been a fun conversation." She said delicately.

"Normally he leaves discipline to me. He's always found it easier to win people over."

"Yes, he's always been outgoing, he's just got this easy charm about him. But it feels…fake somehow now, like he's lost himself. His jokes forced like he's just going through the motions. And he's been snapping at people. He never used to do that in public." Serana spoke in a worried tone, low and insistent.

"Erik doesn't make it easy for him, might be it just got to him. You've seen the way he follows Beren around, like a sulky lost lamb. It would wear anybody down." He said with a loyalty he didn't fully feel, half-heartedly defending his brother. Serana shook her head at this, and spoke simply, waving his argument away.

"Rihad's death was hard on us all, Beren especially so. But that doesn't make it right. Erik is a young boy eager to help, and all Beren can do is ignore him or treat him poorly." Beric signed and nodded at all this, conceding the point.

"It's difficult-damn it-it's not healthy. For any of them. He just needs a bit of time. Time to see some of Erik's better traits. He's brave, polite and persistent to be fair. Give it time for Erik too. Lydia and I can get to work on him. Stop him from acting the little castle-born lord, calling for his executioner and heads just because Elisif executed a few traitor Jarls. He's young and smart enough to learn to be more adaptable, merciful even, when its suitable."

"Speaking as a castle-born lady, that's going to be difficult. Those traits are instilled in us from birth, the good and the bad. We're taught to be polite, and courage is expected along with the other responsibility of nobility. But that comes with the belief that the law should be clear and hard to be just. What people call mercy can look like inconsistency or favouritism, and that causes confusion and resentment against their ruler." She reeled off this old lesson with a shrug, not convinced but feeling the need to make the point all the same.

"Growing up alone on the streets of Whiterun left us with a different perspective on the nature of the law. We've learnt the value of mercy and a second chance, even for castle-born ladies." Serana gave a wry smile at this and Beric mirrored it and shrugged his shoulders as he continued. "Speaking of hypocrisy, Erik's going to have to swallow that bitter pill for himself soon when he meets his betrothed. If he's disappointed by Beren, what's he going to make of Ingun Black-Briar?" he left the question hanging in the air, and Serana nodded thoughtfully as they lapsed into silence.

"Did you get a chance to ask about going back to the college while I was gone?" she asked suddenly, changing the topic. He hadn't, and he had the grace to look a little guilty about it. He'd not forgotten.

"No. I'm sorry." Serana's smile faded quickly at this.

"Beric, we've talked about this. We promised ourselves the college after everything- the dragons, the war. I'm willing to hear a good argument for why we should wait, but after all the time I've spent waiting and dreaming, my patience is a little short." She shook her head and crossed her arms, waiting. Beric sighed, and his happiness faded quickly.

"I can't bring it up now, when we're out here. When I found out he was the Dragonborn that changed things. It's still changing things- even now, though its two years ago. When we meet Aela and Lydia in Whiterun in early Morning Star 202, since then we've been running just to stand still. Now, the civil war's over. No more Miraak or Aldiun or Ulfric. But a body twitches when it dies, and it takes work to calm things down-to enforce the peace. Give it a year…then, we can go." And to make sure he was alright, the though of abandoning Beren right now, given his behaviour weighted heavy on his heart.

Serana's face fell, and she looked away at Aela and the others standing and waiting in the night for the last of their number. He could see a glimmer of unspoken similar concerns running through her head too. He awkwardly changed the subject back to the original matter at hand.

"this pit you were talking about, I don't like it. No escape if things go wrong. What happens if the rest of them are delayed?"

"You said we could take them all on single handed, now you're worried about running from them?" she looked back at him, taking the opportunity to tease though there was a little venom to it.

"Nah, we've always fought our way out of worse. It's Beren's fighting skills I'm worried about."

"Do I feel my ears burning?" a voice called out quietly behind them and made the pair of them jump.

Beren came striding out of the night, fully armoured and grinning reassuringly to his friends. Like Lydia, he was covered head to shoulders in a mass of steel, leathers and furs, fully armed for the dawn assault on Halted Stream Camp. His Skyforged steel arming sword and matching dagger belted on his waist and his shield swung on his back until needed. A bear fur wrapped around the broad bulk of his shoulders, giving him a broad, sturdy, feral look.

He quickly moved amongst the group, a firm clasp of the forearm and few quiet words to each and a quick stolen kiss from Aela as a welcome back, then looked over the cold fire pit. He moved the shuttered lantern closer he was carrying closer to it and placed it on the ground carefully opening the shrouded grate a sliver onto the area around them as he knelt. The rest of them crowded closely round the spilled small pool of light in the moon-dark woods and stood in respectful silence. With a few quick brushes and some swift movements with his hands, he smoothed out the ground, re-arranging the rocks and sticks into a rough but small model of the camp and surrounding area. He picked up the largest, straightest stick as a pointer.

"We're going to make this quick to save the night and the mist, else we'll lose it to the sun. As it stands, we're too close to risk more light, so the lantern and Masser and Secunda will have to provide for this briefing."

"This is the camp." He indicated a small triangle of sticks with his pointer.

"This is the ridgeline behind it, with the mammoth trap pit." He indicated a rough mass of rocks and a small hole in them.

"This is the little woodblock we're standing in." He indicated a small collect of sticks he'd pushed into the ground

"Aela- what did you find, in full." He handed the stick over.

She stepped forwards taking the stick and waved it over the gap between the copse and camp on the model. "It's looking good. The valley is full of mist that's thicker then what we're standing in now. There's a little stream at the bottom of this little valley, but the camp sits at the head of the valley so we don't need to worry about crossing that. With the mist and the cover from bushes and tall grass I crossed the valley floor easily enough, got within 50 feet of the palisade. The two gates are closed and most likely barred for the night. Two sentry towers near the gate each with one sentry, but they're barely awake, plus a third watching the fire outside on a chair. Finally, I climbed up the rocky ridgeline here." she tapped with the stick in the centre of the little triangle. "This little hut in the centre, by the fire- there's about 5-6 bandits here, snoring."

"Good." Beren announced as Aela returned the stick and stepped back. "Serana."

Serana stepped forwards but waved the offered stick away.

"I climbed down that mammoth pit we'd heard about. It's about a 20-foot climb, and a bit dangerous as it's filled with spikes at the bottom. Once there I crept along the tunnel- all clear, no guards at all in that at least. At the end, close to the entrance to main cavern is the cage where they're keeping him, about 30 feet down the tunnel from the pit. They've got about a couple of guards watching at a distance, and a solid padlock on the cage door. Beric and I could make the climb down easily and ensure they don't murder him before we get there. Beric could probably open the cage and steal him away, though I doubt he could climb out in the condition he's in."

Beren nodded at this, and looked thoughtful for a moment. He then launched into his plan, using the stick to illustrate his order- here tapping a particular area before sweeping widely across the model to show the movement of troops, occasionally pointing at individuals to emphasise key points confidently made.

"OK here's the plan. We're going from move here as a group to about half way across the valley floor under the cover of night and the mist and then split up, about 100 feet from the wall for a two-pronged assault. I will have the main assault group with me, and the rescue group led by Serana. The rescue group will move off first, and the assault group will wait under my command for them to move off. We will then move to 50 feet away from the palisade and hold fast there. Serana- you're going to take some rope and Durag-" this pronouncement caused a slight stir in the group. Beren ignored it and continued, authoritatively.

"Serana and Durag, when you get to the mammoth pit, prepare the climbing rope and when you're ready send a weak magelight straight up. This will be the signal for us to start the attack. Beric will return it to confirm we've seen it. You're going to enter the mammoth pit and stealthy move forward into a position to watch the cage. You are to hold off any who attempt to open the cage to get Frothar. To be clear- you are only to attack if it looks like they are going to kill the boy, otherwise don't intervene until we arrive. This requires two people who are skilled at sneaking and not drawing attention." Beric kept his face impassive at this. Serana could manage that feat with her eyes shut, but Durag was only mildly skilled in this work. He kept his opinion to himself, for now.

"While Durag and Serana get into position Aela will lead us from the split-up point into the same position she scouted. There we will wait for Serana's signal. The main assault will contain me, Lydia and Beric as our battlemage, under covering arrows from Aela. Aela- you will kill the two sentries while we advance, and any others who appear in the guard towers. Once close to the palisade I will shout down the walls or main gate, and we will then clear the bailey to the mine entrance, killing all who resist. Once inside Beric will use his magic to clear any barriers, obstacles or formed resistance, and Lydia and I will follow."

"Remember- we need to move hard and fast- the mine has three layers of defences according to the merchant- the outer gates, the mine entrance, and the mine gate half way along the tunnel. The speed and violence of our assault, combined with the hour of our attack will overwhelm the bandits before they can mount an effective defence. I want us to get amongst them before they can respond or slow us up. We must maintain the momentum and surprise at all costs. Beric will stun those who surrender with his magic, and Aela will follow on, binding and taking control of any prisoners as we pass through. Kill any who resist. Wipe. Them. Out. If that's what they want."

With that he thrust the stick deceivably into the ground, and looked around at the audience of six, confidence, enthusiasm and aggression radiating off him.

"Questions?"

He looked around the tight circle of his friends as shook their heads and whispered no.

"Durag? Aela? Serana?"

They shook their heads. Beric had made his decisions, and there was sense enough in it, and he was the Dragonborn and who were they to question his competence so publicly? He asked a few confirmatory questions about the plan and then pronounced himself satisfied. A few of them flicked unseeing eyes towards Beric in the dark, uneasy.

"10 minutes and then we head off."

With that statement Beren broke up their little gathering, and they all rushed off to grab the last bits and pieces necessary. Beren moved away, and grabbed the proferred breakfast from Erik and stuffed it into his face in three massive bites, chewing mechanically. Beric followed his younger brother as he walked away from the group, isolating them. Once they were sufficiently far away that they were unlikely to be overheard Beric reached out and tapped Beren on the arm.

"I didn't want to challenge you back there."

Beric turned on him with a bark. "So don't do it here."

"I just want to make sure you're thought this through." Beric responded, calm and unruffled. "Durag is a poor climber with his leg, and Aela and I would have both been better choices for the climbing and infiltration."

Beren relaxed a bit and Beric could see his concerns for a moment flit and fight behind his eyes. He the suddenly barked a quiet laugh and shrugged. "We can't get the boy Frothar up again, so we need to watch him rather than attempting to smuggle him out. The main assault therefore needs to draw everyone in, and if you're shooting up max-strength mage light into the air like fireflies and I'm shouting down the gates, that place is going to look like the fall of Windhelm. Aela should help with that- the longbow has a rate of fire that a crossbow just can't match. Durag meanwhile has the plate for a melee, and his staff can add to the numbers if needed." Beric felt that was over selling Durag's armour, and Beren obviously sensed this doubt and paused for a moment, then lightly punched Beric on the arm.

"Besides, you said it yourself- I need someone there who can fight like you."

Beric nodded, unwilling to pursue the issue further. He could see the logic of how he had worked within the limitation of his resources, though still privately troubled as tumbled thoughts ran through his head. If Beren was worried about exposing Aela to danger, she shouldn't have come- not that Aela would agree to that- and so here they were. Satisfied, he consigned himself to the mission and steeled himself for the morning's bloody work, and with that they hurried into fading night.

* * *

Durag and Serana left them at the pre-arranged point, stalking single file through the swirling mist, a whispered "happy hunting" passing over Serana's shoulder as she looked back at Beric who returned it, then the pair of slipped off silently into the lightening gloom. He watched them until they disappeared from sight, and then the rest of the team moved off quietly, having given them a sufficient head start for their longer route. Now they waited patiently in the long grasses where Aela had spent much of the night scouting. Beric knelt uncomfortably amongst the wild grains and the bushes and the mist along with the others, peering into the lightening night sky, watching and waiting, sword to hand, water soaking the cloth of his leggings and the leather of his boots. The mist was definitely thinning now, and the moons had fallen below the horizon. Over to the east, a faint glow lit up the skyline as Magnus, the Sun, threatened to rise and burn away their cover with his searing rays of light.

Beric glanced at Beren for a moment who knelt beside him, and saw him peering intently into the dark. He knew on what his eyes were fixed. They were watching unblinkingly the dark shrouded outline of the low rock-strewn ridgeline that backed Halted Stream Camp for the sign that they were in position. He was breathing deep, steady breaths, sending great clouds of breath up into the air, shield in one hand, sword in the other, Aela by his side, longbow held low across her chest with an arrow nocked to the string. He settled his eyes back on the ridgeline, easily seeing through the dark as thought it was midday. He thought through the plan ensuring that he was happy with it, the order of events and the roles he would play. He ran through a list of spells in his head, and felt the magicka in his body stir and roil in readiness as he framed them in his mind. Satisfied that all was well, his thoughts again drifted to Serana.

She was capable, he knew full well. And he could see the logic of her and Durag in their role. The best solution to a bad decision he thought. With a missing finger on one hand they couldn't sneak him out. If they all came from the front, what if they killed Frothar before they got there? Or held him with a blade to his neck to bargain? Better to send a pair in ambush. Serana and Durag were creative, intelligent people and skilled with sword and magick enough that they could easily hold off any number of disorganised bandits channelled down a narrow tunnel. If they were quick, it might even work to their advantage. He could see them now on the ridgeline, a distant pair working forwards quietly and stealthily. He felt excitement and fear spike within him, as he took what enjoyment was possible in the last few minutes of peace and quiet.

He would have felt better accepting those risks though. He favoured simple plans were little could go wrong while maximising the impact at the decisive point. If that meant leaving Frothar to his chances, then he would accept that risk. Or, when forced to take the subtle option, not to compromise in the selection of his team. This just seem schoolboy, he thought with sudden savagery. He wondered how much his jitters were down to the plan's intricacies, how much an unwillingness to take any chances, and how much his own emotional preferences. He calmed himself. It should be fine.

He ran through the team in his head. Aela was a Companion, and a competent all-round fighter with arming sword, Longbow and round shield, while Durag's skill was with magic and crossbow at long range, and Serana's as a spellsword, striking from mid-range as others closed in for the kill. The thought that Serana and Durag might have to fend off a determined assault in the close push of melee, without shields and with only light armour suddenly did not fill him with the confidence it previously did. Now an arching nimbus of light shot up from behind the camp like a fire arrow, only for a second or two and then fizzling out.

Abruptly Beren hand shot out, gripping his forearm with Fierce strength "that's the signal, let's go let's go." He said in a rushed half-whisper. Beric had already snapped back and up on his feet, hurriedly sending up his own reply to confirm, the magelight pinged straight up, blanketing the camp before them as Aela stood and drew back her great longbow. All of them were now up and moving before Beren had finished speaking. Rushing through the dawn air at a sprint. Behind Beric heard the characteristic 'thwump' as Aela loosed her arrow at the sentry now magically illuminated and stood blinking in wonder at the light dangling above his head.

The shaft zipped through the air, and struck the sentry in the temple with cracking force. His head snapped over at once, blood haloed his head in a pink mist, pulsing from his shattered skull. The bandit dropped wordlessly below the level of the palisade, a corpse before he hit the ground. They ran on at a dead sprint, Beric felt his helmet bouncing on his head and straining at the chin strap, heard the sound of their boots, pounding through the grass, and the hoarse breath of Lydia and Beren as they fill their lungs with air. It seemed impossible that they remaining sentry wouldn't spot them.

In the end it was, but it didn't matter. The sentry tore his gaze from the hovering light, turned and saw the three of them rushing like Daedroths from foul Oblivion, and he filled his lungs to shout a warning. Aela's arrow took him in the shoulder, he staged from the blow and let out a high-pitched scream of surprise and pain. The camp, already awakening with call of surprise, now echoed with returned shouts of alarm. The Dragonborn answered it with his own as they rushed the solid wooden wall.

Ten feet from the palisade he shouted. It was a horrible, impossible sound, the pressure wave pulsing on their eyeballs and compressing their skull and chests. The anger of a vengeful god unleashed, as a section of the palisade disintegrated, twelve-foot-tall tree trucks sent spinning end over end through the air like cabers, or shattered to splinters and matchwood scything through the mist, some slivers the size of toothpicks, others the length of a leg. The force of the yell did not dissipate but continued, and bandits inside the camp staggered as their hut disintegrated and collapsed, caught in the path of the unrelenting wave of pressure. A bandit sleeping on the floor in the hut snapped upright as the thin walls were blown away, only to be hit full in the face by a spinning log. His head split apart like a dropped melon leaving a truck pulsing vibrant blood in arching crimson squirts, before being buried under the collapsing roof. Then through the broken breach the three came, and then they started killing.

Beren was first through the breach, booted feet half slipping on the disturbed earth and morning dew as his sword snapped towards a half-dressed Redguard, who had stumbled up to stand in the breach shock written across his face. The sword punched through his open mouth, and the blade burst through the back of his head in an explosion of blood and brains and hair. His eyes filled with blood, and he coughed weakly, broken teeth falling to the ground. Beren's shield thrust violently and pushed him to the ground, and he stepped forwards over the corpse, cutting the top off a Bosmer's skull off with a wild swing as he screamed his victory cry. The Bosmer babbled inanely in reply, and collapsed writhing on the ground and pissed himself. Above them the sentry in the tower took another arrow, this time to the belly and fell screaming and crying mother over and over again.

Beric followed behind through the breach, stepping to the right. A Nord in iron armour rushed at him with an arming sword, his shield forgotten in panic. Beric held his bastard sword up in both hands in an ox guard. The Nord swung wildly, screaming wordless revenge. Beric silently parried the wild strike, and feinted in return. The Nord jumped back, and his guard wavered, unused to fighting without a shield. Beric rapidly stepped forwards pressing his advantage, making room for Lydia to punch her shield into the heaving melee. Then Beric swung, sword flashing past the guard. First the tip of his sword caught the Nord's sword hand, cutting it open to the bone and severing a finger. The nerveless hand dropped the sword. Beric followed the cut up with a thrust, springing forwards, the razor-sharp blade slicing through the bandit's throat. His body collapsed backwards as he clapped his hands to his throat in shock desperately attempting to stem the glow as he gurgled and choked, collapsing in the dirt to bleed out, legs kicking. Beric ignored him.

With that, they were through the breach. Of the three sentries, two had been killed or incapacitated by Aela's arrows. Beric had killed the other. Of the six or so bandits that had been sleeping outside in the hut, they had either been crushed to death when it had collapsed, or killed in combat by the others.

"Hurry! Hurry! To the gate!" Beric called to the others, stumbling over the broken ground pointing with his dripping sword, and they rushed forwards, across the rubble strewn ground. Their hob-nail boots scrambling for purchase, heavy handed arms pumping. Behind them they heard the easy breathing of Aela as she caught up with them, longbow slung, shield ready and sword drawn. Lydia barely paused as they rushed forwards to finish off a bandit amidst the ruined hut, his legs pinned beneath a beam of wood. He had tears in his eyes, and shivered from shock. He looked up, and his eyes lit up with a wordless plea for mercy before her sword sliced down. They cleared the bailey before the mine entrance, Beren tumbled into the door shoulder first, and the flimsy wood burst open. Lydia, Beric and Durag followed into the dark. Swallowed up by the earth.

* * *

Beric called upon his magicka and brought forth a floating orb candlelight as they hurried down the mineshaft, so narrow they were forced to move two abreast. They heard rebounding shouts of surprise ahead, but no sounds of combat. Good, Beric thought, they still haven't found Aela or Serana. A pair of voices distinguished itself from the noise deeper in the mine. They were close, engaged in a loud and confused argument, the sounds of their fight bouncing off the earthen walls of the mine.

"What was that? Thunder?" a worried, confused voice echoed from up ahead.

"Did that sound like thunder to you?" came an acerbic reply.

"Sounded like nothin' I've ever heard. Could be warnings of a cave in. Never heard of thunder underground but…."

"Shut up." The voice cut through the babbling, but he refused to be silenced

"Sounds like someone's coming, maybe they know what's going on-Hey! Hey! Hey? Wait- Who's that?"

The four of them had bounded around the corner midsentence, tumbling into sight- blood-soaked and breathless and clutching their weapons tight, and looked down the tunnel towards a landing where the shaft levelled off and opened up into a room. The shifting magical candlelight played weird dancing shadows on the walls, illuminating the shocked faces of the pair of bandits.

The two bandits were standing sword and shields loosely to hand where they had been arguing, and they rushed forwards with a roar to meet them in the narrow tunnel where an advantage in numbers would be useless. They had reached the final barrier; the metal gate was now in sight over the bandits' shoulders open and unlocked. "Victory! Or Sovngarde!" Beren cried, returning their roars with his own guttural yell, forgetting all reason and surging forwards, sword held high behind his shield. Lydia doggedly pressing forwards at his left-hand side, the others close behind. Yells of surprise and bloody oaths sounded from beyond the open gate in answer.

There was a shattering crash of shield on shield, a teeth-shaking collision as charge met charge. Shield, braced against heaving shoulder, pushed against shield, heaved back in reply with a strong arm and back. Boots slipped and strained for grip on the gravel of the tunnel floor, while swords flashed overheard and clattered underneath, searching for an opening, striking like snakes before withdrawing, hunting for the meat and blood, the food and drink of a fresh kill. Beric found himself standing behind Lydia who was fighting the left-hand bandit, a fur-clad imperial. She swung her sword over the heaving shields at the bandit's head. The bandit stepped back nimbly to avoid the blow, and Lydia surged forwards, punching out her shield into the bandit's side again and again, keeping him off balance and isolating him. Beric instantly stepped forwards to protect her right side from the bandit Beren was fighting shield to shield, together pressing the Bandit against the wall and separating him from his companion, breaking their shield wall into unequal duels.

He felt rather than saw Aela surge forwards behind him to help Lydia, blade in hand. The now cornered Bandit turned his shield from one brother to the other, his sword ever moving, presenting a moving barrier of defence. Desperation lit his face as he attempted to duel two men at once, and he knew that his death had come. He filled his lungs.

"Help! Help! Attackers! They're here!" He screamed in a babbled panic, his shout provoking yells further down the tunnel.

Beric feinted at the bandit with his bastard sword, but the Nord merely laughed and kept his nerve, and then Beren took a chance and swung low with his Skyforged sword, beneath the shield to catch him in the ankles. The bandit saw the blow coming, and deflected it with his shield, overcommitting to the block. That sealed his fate, he shifted his attention to far to Beren, his shield too low, Beric quickly stepped to the left, and punched his sword forwards, the thrust caught the bandit sideways in the chest, and through it was stopped by his ribs he screamed in pain and surprise, and he tried to awkward turn back to Beric, struggling on the end of the blade like a butterfly on a pin as Beric twisted and tried to worked the blade free. With that, Beren buried his sword deep in the bandit's neck, and ripped it out in a spray of blood.

The second bandit was lying dead on the ground. Wordlessly they hurried into the room, turned right and passed one by one through the gate- Lydia, Beren, Beric then Aela. The ground was steep, and loose with gravel and mud. They were forced to slow their progress, boots as dirt and pebbles cascaded out from under their feet, and they all swore savagely when the candlelight spell winked out and Beric had to cast it anew.

They entered a large cavern and looked down from the wooden scaffolding of the mine workings that hugged the edges of the cave onto the scene below. The orb of magical light now unneeded in a scene lit by foul smelling oil lamps and guttering torches, the rapid transition to the well light room and the noxious smells making their eyes blink and water. The centre of the cavern was filled with a half butchered mammoth corpse, surrounded by mining tools and piles of bedding. Ahead the bandit chieftain was rallying his remaining five men, leading them to the ramp which led up the scaffolding to them. The chieftain gestured to two of his bandits and they peeled off to the darkened mouth of the tunnel to the rear, and the large cage there, while he led the other three towards them, up the ramp of the wooden scaffolding towards them. Suddenly, with the quickness of a spider Serana and Durag appeared. Serana backhanded the air in front of her, and rapidly moving spears of ice impaled a Orc. He fell to the ground with a scream and laid still for a second in a pool of blood, until with another gesture he rose with a corpse-groan and turned towards his former allies. Durag's Aetherial staff paid for the other, a shower of Dwemer spiders bursting from its head, they scattered across the floor in a wave, nimbly avoiding the wild strokes of the sword and crawling up the flailing body of the other bandit, pulling him down and tearing into his screaming body, quickly ripping it apart with vice and pincer.

The remaining bandits, surrounded, outnumbered and demoralised were quickly and bloodily cut down as they stood back to back in a desperate last stand. Beric, Lydia, Serana, Beren at first all screaming for their blood, yelling their warcries, then pleading with them to surrender as their swords bit deep and were drawn back for another stroke, begging them to think of their lives and put a halt to the violence, Beren pulling his helmet from his head, yelling his name to them. Jarl Balgruuf and the Dragonborn were renowned as just and merciful men, but stern upholders of the law. The Bandits would rather face their deaths sword in hand and send their souls to Sovngarde, than prolong their suffering and met their end on the block. Their wishes were granted, and they fell taking all their wounds to the front.

Beric looked over their corpses, strewn around on the wooden floor, and put his foot on the chieftain's head and bent, pulling his roundel dagger out from the vision slits of the Bandit Chieftain's helmet, and wiped it clean on the man's tattered gambeson. He swallowed roughly, his throat rough and scratchy with from the screaming and exertion and his thirst. He blinked it away, refocusing and clearing his head from the red mist which had descended upon all of them.

"Go to the boy! Go!" came the order- Beren pushing people down, into the pit, and Lydia started down, Beric following quickly, jumping over the piled twitching corpses. Beren knelt over the chieftain's body, rustling through the pouches on his belt and pulling out a random assortment of objects. Clipped coins scattered onto the planks, slipping between the cracks. A crust of bread thrown down and soaking up the blood. Serana grabbed Beric and led him across the cavern.

"He's this way come on."

She led them across the cavern floor, towards the cage. At the bottom a huddled bundle of rags, curled up on itself in fear and nursing a bandaged hand.

"Frothar- your father sent us, you're safe."

He looked up at them with a grimy face, and broke into tears of gratitude. Beren appeared key in his hand. The padlock clinked open, and the boy was carefully lifted out of the cage. Beren pulled him onto his shoulder, and carried him out of the cavern. Lydia and Aela followed, swords out. After a quick search of the cavern revealed little but aged mining equipment, some food and a pot of deer stew the remaining three of them wordlessly made the long climb back up and out of the mine.

When the emerged, Magnus stung their eyes, and the felt the cold sweat that bathed their limbs and stuck their mop-wet clothes to their bodies for the first time. He could feel the after effects of the fight, cold sweat coating his body beneath the bloody outer layers and adrenaline setting his hands clumsy and shaking. Effects which had long lost their novelty but never their consequences. They saw that dawn had truly risen, burning away the morning mist. Erik had brought their horses and the rest of the party down from the camp. Exhausted and grateful, they thanked him, mounted their horse and rode for Dragonsreach, and for home.

* * *

Hey everyone thanks very much for reading. That's chapter 2 done. Chapter 3 is in the process of writing, and I will aim to release in early may (ideally 01/05/19). I will aim to release a chapter at the start of each month, and will leave an update to let you all know if the situation changes or a chapter is delayed. Please leave a review to let me know your thoughts- what you liked and what I can improve on.

Cheers!

reviews

Hello again .6, thanks for writing a review for this chapter too!

Yeah, Erik is really young. At the younger end historically for a squire, but still reasonable and accurate. It helps explain why they look at him as both an obnoxious teenager and an untrained liability that they want to protect but also not really engage with.

Thanks for your advice on the numbers- I will ensure I write them out in future, and fully take that on board. Delaying mentioning his age was conscious decision that I went back and forth on. Ultimately, I didn't want to put it into the previous chapter as I felt it was already exposition/description heavy and I felt it would have felt awkward and wasn't something someone would realistically think about themselves. I'm trying to gradually reveal backstory, but I'll look at adjusting the pace with which that information is communicated in future, as well as look again at what needs to be communicated and when.

As for Beric I'm glad that you liked him. He's got a lot of war experience, but he's cautious, introverted and reserved compared his brother. As I said previously, Beren isn't in the best place right now, and Beric's struggling with that, as well as dealing with Erik. All of which affects his personal life.

Thanks very much for feedback with the combat. I waned to make it feel realistic but not glorified. I wanted it to be off putting and uncomfortable- disgusting even. I felt helps show how good they've become at it as a team, and illustrate the background of how they feel about Erik's hero worship of them.

GreyWolf93, thanks for taking the time to write a review for chapter two.

Thanks very much for that flattering comparison, it is the highest praise I can think of. Especially for the characterisation- I found that I was struggling with 'world building disease.' Dialogue and characterisation were my self-diagnosed areas of improvement. I'll try my hardest to maintain the current quality.

Thanks for spotting that, and providing an example. I'll go through chapters 1 & 2 and fix those issues, probably over this month. Cheers.

Just a issue that needs to be cleared up, Erik of Solitude is a different person from Erik of Rorikstead. I'm sorry if that was misleading as I used the same name- I should have expected that and made it more overt who his father is.

As you note, social class in a pre-industrial society is rigid, even in Skyrim. These will affect Beren and Beric too- while Beren is the dragonborn and outside those conventions, Beric isn't. We'll get into all of these issues in chapter 3, where a lot of the politics that's been window dressing so far will start to directly affect the characters we've established.


	3. Chapter 3: A Hearthfire Homecoming

**Chapter three: A Hearthfire homecoming**

**Beric II**

"So, no shit, there I was. Standing on the side of this mountain in Solstheim, lost and looking for this damned White Ridge Barrow and Durag just turns to me asks me if I see a ship. Now, we've been walking for like eight hours through the snow up this damned mountain by now so I think he's finally lost it for good from the cold and lack of sleep and food. But then he said 'no, no, no the wreckage of a ship' As though that makes things clearer!"

They were all sat on benches and chairs, crowded round the open central hearth in the main hall of the Dragonborn's sprawling Kyne's Rest estate, safe in Whiterun's prosperous Wind District. Horns of mead and goblets of wine stayed close to hand as they listened to Beren tell his story, punctuating his words with his sloshing cup of Black-Briar Reserve, his cheeks flushed from the drink to match his guests as they listened with alcoholic attentiveness. The high doomed roof above them was hidden from sight as the fire burnt lower. The feast was over. The servants circled quietly, removing the last of the piled plates and dishes from the tables behind Beren's closely crowded family and friends. They were joined by others, prosperous members of Whiterun, some thanes and even a few members of the Jarl's Court had been invited, and all gathered close to listened to the story he told by flickering candlelight. Safe behind locked doors. For it was Tales and Tallows eve, and that night the dead walked the streets and stalked the houses of the living.

"Well what was it then?" Durag interjected, bald head shining in the flickering firelight.

"Hold on I'm getting to that!" Beren roared back. "you see- Durag and his father have got this theory that the Dwarves used to fly around the sky like boats on the sea. 'Air-ships' if you like, held up by inflated bladders or balloons or something like that. So, they've been wandering Skyrim for years trying to find and rebuild one for themselves." This provoked a chorus of good-natured jeers as Durag half stood and inarticulately tried to defended himself before being dragged down.

"It is a well-established fact that the Dwemer had airships an-"

"Flying orc berserkers? The ground-based ones are dangerous enough!" Lydia cut in to cheers and laughs, putting an awkward grin on Durag's face.

"This all sounds like Ysolda in the Bannered Mare, with her stories of flying cities and singing trees after she's had more than a few horns of mead." Beric put in, waving the story away jokingly.

"Why would they fly if they live underground and have Blackreach?" Serana asked quizzically, before hiccupping and blushing.

"Hush!" Aela scolded them all before Durag could answer. "Let him finish the story."

"Yes! Thank you my dear. So, we're all tied one by one to this rope to prevent us from getting lost in the snow and wind, and Durag just goes running off yelling, which means we all have to follow. So now we're all being pulled along this mountainside by a hallucinating Orc."

"Hey, what did we find when we got there?" Durag yelled pointedly.

"About a million of those little bastard Reiklings." Beren retorted

"And their javelins" Beric added

"And their boars" Lydia prompted, throwing a log onto the fire in a shower of sparks.

"And their javelins and their boars" Beren corrected himself, hoping to move on.

"What's a Reikling?" Erik asked curious.

"It's a goblin." Lydia said dismissively, which again provoked another furious round of shouting. Goblets were waved, wine was sloshed and horns were downed and refilled before the issue was settled and order was again restored by Aela, the soberest of them all. Beren put down his horn and picked up the tale with both hands.

"SHUT UP! Right. So, we're now trying to get into line abreast, while fighting our way uphill, in a snow storm, all tied together on a single rope, and suddenly Durag just starts screaming like he's been hit and falls headfirst into a snowdrift. And Beric, the only one of us who knows his way around a healing spell starts wind milling his arms and legs through the knee-deep snow to get to him, meanwhile Serana's running about the other way shooting ice at the little snow devils, which might as well have been snowballs for all the good it was doing. Now between them is Aela- my ever-suffering and ever-loving wife-" good hearted cheers were raised at this and Aela stood and toasted them all with her cup. "She's got her longbow out, and she's losing arrows, and loosing away, and dodging javelins, and being useful. Meanwhile, neither Serana or Beric are paying any attention to anything else as they run at angles away from each other, so the rope just snaps taught and BAM!" He yells happily cracking his hand together. "whips Aela right off her feet." Roars of laughed filled the hall from floor to roof at this, as Serana and Beric turned red and were jostled by those seated around them.

"So I've made my way to Durag, and he's trying to pull himself up out the snow, just as Beric comes running in dragging Lydia and by now Serana on that damn rope, and he just grabs Durag by the shoulders, shakes him and yells full in his face 'DON'T WORRY MY FRIEND YOU'RE GOING TO BE JUST FINE' and then just stops and stares when he realises that we're just laughing our asses off because there's not a scratch on him, while behind him are Lydia and Serana, who've gotten up are now just covered head to foot in snow, looking like a pair of frost trolls and twice as angry. Meanwhile the Reiklings are still chuckling javelins and boars at us and Durag's again started screaming 'Look! Look!' again at the top of his lungs."

"And there it was-a Air ship! Broken into three pieces on the side of that mountain." Durag jumped in with his take on the punchline, standing proudly, arms raised in victory and validation while good natured alcoholic boos rained down on him. Beric shook his head at this and stood, waving Durag back down.

"Miraak separated Solstheim from the rest of Skyrim, that would have caused huge waves. Waves big enough to carry a ship up a mountainside, and then the cold preserved it where it crashed." Hrongar, Farengar and Proventus behind him nodded, and a few others murmured their agreement. It seemed far more logical that 'air-ships' or some other nonsense.

"No, it was an Air-ship" Durag spoke fervently.

"Any chance of finding those balloons?" Serana teased.

"Uh…no, but my father whose there now says the damage to the air-ship was extensive and…" they booed again and pulled him down at this. With the story presumed over, conversation resumed, loud and boisterous at first as similar adventures and old stories were retold, then slowly easing as the excitement left them and the march of time wearied their limbs. Erik yawned as he toasted a slice of bread over the fire, and many others joined him, or else refiled the cups for one last drink. A professionally trained and expensive bard sang beautifully in old nordic. She had a fine voice and was skilled with her lyre, and they listened in respectful silence to the haunting melody as she sang of old atmora.

Drowsy now, they slipped away slowly, one by one, some upstairs to their own rooms, guests to their houses. All to their warm beds, now that the feast was over and the tales were told. Beren and Aela guided the Thanes and Jarl's Court guests to the door, where the guests were joined by their bodyguards from the south wing kitchens before disappearing into the night. Lydia went around the house after the guests left to check that the bolts on the doors were locked for the night and then left for bed.

Aela sat with her husband, arms around each other's shoulders as they huddled close and stared into the fire. His and Aela's 'friendship' had always been strained since the winter two years ago, when he had returned covertly to Whiterun, Serana in tow, curious to meet his brother, now the man rumoured to be Dragonborn. He had arrived fresh from the Soul Cairn and Beren from wiping out the Glenmoril Coven. Both much changed and the worse for wear from their recent experiences. A difficult peace was forged that winter, and a superficial friendship had flourished between him and Aela, made easier by limited contact as much by accident as by choice.

The hall was quiet, and they were the only ones left staring into the fire in silence. They were all far away, the memory of that mountainside and its confusion was mixed. The events of that day had been a muddle of exhaustion, chaos and fear as they had repeatedly gotten lost looking for that Barrow. The fight had been dangerous, and ill-judged, and the humour that coloured their memories was as much relief as disbelief at their survival in mostly one piece. Relief, the passage of time, and a good deal of alcohol had dulled its pains and sharped the humour of the situation.

"I appreciate you staying on, for a while." Beren said suddenly, taking a sip from his horn, before placing it on the floor and taking up Aela's hand in his own. He squeezed it affectionately as she looked on uneasy.

"Thanks." Beric said simply, taken by surprise.

"I know that you had other plans. You and Serana. Winterhold. Studying magic like you always dreamed." He said inarticulately.

"it's fine." Beric cut him off.

"No. Just…just listen for a minute. I know."

"It's fine." He said, getting up to leave.

"It was an accident, you know. Aela getting pregnant." Beren blurted out blushing and awkward at the omission. Aela blushed pink at this and fidgeted awkwardly, unable to make eye contact.

"…Well, these things have a habit of happening." Beric stood, rooted to the spot.

"I don't want you to feel trapped- like you have to stay."

"No, I want to be here, there's so much work to be done." Beric reassured him, suddenly self-conscious. "and I'm….I'm never going to have children. I want to be there to see my niece or nephew born, before we go. I want to hold that child in my arms." Aela did not particularly look keen at this, but Beren didn't see it and nodded fiercely, relief on his face.

"You were right- earlier. If I was worried about Aela I should-."

"We wouldn't have let anything happen to her." He said, steel in his voice. Beren stood as relief washed over his face.

"Good."

"Good."

"When are you going to make it public?"

"A month or two. When it starts to show and we know for sure." Aela stated simply, he stared at her flat stomach hidden under her feast finery, it seemed almost impossible to image her pregnant, sitting by the fire in a few months with a swollen belly.

"Good." They stood there awkwardly.

Suddenly Beric pulled Beren into a headlock, he flailed awkwardly in his grip, fist painful rubbing the top of his head as he lectured him.

"You fucker! I thought I taught you better than that! Come on! Accident my arse, you horrible little boy." Laughter and yells filled the hall from widely grinning faces as the two brothers wrestled like children. Beren wrestled free, and they froze, then suddenly pulled each other into a bear hug. Exhausted and exhilarated, they broke free.

"what are you going to do after the child is born?"

"I am going to raise them like I was. Take them into the forest, teach them to hunt with spear and bow, how to track, just like my Ma did for me. Beren will teach them how to read, how to fight, how to lead. Together, we will raise a child fit to undertake the trials to join the companions." Aela stated this simply, and he did not miss that he was omitted from having any role in raising the child. She stared at him, almost daring him to challenge her, and he decided not to make an issue of it. They sat there for a while longer, all three of them, chatting quietly until they could stay awake decently no longer, and went to bed.

* * *

Beric woke uneasily, the bonds of sleep dropping from his body like loosened iron fetters. Whatever bloody nightmares had troubled his rest deserted his mind as the present filled the void those frightful fleeting visions left. He cracked his eyes open momentarily tense, taking in the still unfamiliar surroundings, then relief filled him as distant memories returned to reassure. It was early, well before sunrise, judging from the lack of light filtering through the shuttered window. He closed his eyes again and relaxed. Nestled in his small but comfortable bed. Home, such as it was, Home, he told himself firmly. He lay wrapped in fine clean sheets spun from tundra cotton, tucked under a thick quilt with his head buried in a well stuffed feather pillow. He pulled the bedclothes close around him and allowed his mind to wander, savouring these forgotten luxuries. His room smelt clean and fresh from the herb-sprig filled bowl that sat by the shuttered window. His head was still filled with the general goodwill that follows a few rounds of drinks, tempered with fuzzy memories and mixed feelings.

It was a shame we had started drinking like that, he thought guiltily. It was a shame we had to stop at all, another replied. Outside the house this early in the morning the city of Whiterun was yet to awaken properly, and the thick walls muffled all sounds. Inside the house had settled during the night, and was also yet to stir. He felt at peace and restful, safe and secure in a manner he had not felt for far too long. He relaxed, and dozed for a long moment more, remembering their return to Whiterun more than a week ago.

Beren had pulled him away shortly after the assault upon Halted Stream Camp had finished for a quiet apology and an explanation. The news of Aela's pregnancy, imparted in secret, made the two-day journey home feel like the work of an instant. He floated home, giddily as a youth on their name day. They had arrived at the Whiterun gates after nightfall, hurried on by watchful gate guards straight to Dragonsreach, where they handed Frothar over to his grateful father in the grandeur of the main hall. The handover had been without ceremony, as they had outpaced news of their arrival.

Balgruuf hugged the boy deeply, eyes crinkling with emotion as he saw the bandage Beric had applied to his hand. He sent his servants and guards scurrying with a stream of commands, calling for physicians and hurrying Frothar away, while politely begging their forgiveness for leaving them awhile. In the meantime, the hospitality of his hall was extended to them as servants opened casks of mead and a few bottles of good wine to slake their thirst. Exhausted and saddle-sore they at once sunk into chairs and onto benches, legs stretched before them. A trio of bards, hastily woken and grumbling had struck up a pleasant air from the gallery on lyre, drum and flute, and shortly afterwards the hall was filled with the smell of food as a couple of small lidded pots and an array of platters was placed upon the table for them. The hall was filled with the smell of bread, warmed pottage and hot spiced wine. They thanked the servants profusely, waving away their apologies for the quality of the food, understanding that the hour was late, and proffering their cups to be refilled for compensation.

Not wanting to look rude, Beric fished out a few pieces of meat from a small helping, and then abandon his place at the table, to stretch his cramped legs, he explained. He walked easily, filling his time with easy conversation at random, taking in the wall hangings and elegant carving of the wooden panelling and pillars of the hall while drinking a few cups of good warmed spice wine, imported at great expense from solitude. He pointed out the great skull above the throne to Erik, who scurried in excitement to view it at a closer but respectable distance. He had just finished chatting with Farengar, telling him of his intention to live in Whiterun for the next year, and being warned against 'reopening old wounds to repay old scores' when Balgruuf returned.

The tension and relief on his face was been readily visible, and he pulled them all into bear like hugs, ignoring Irileth's warnings about assassins. He even managed to pull Serana into an embrace, and pumped Erik's arm in a way that had left them both red faced and blushing before pulling away and seating himself securely upon the throne of the hold. Servants circled discretely, re-filling their cups while Balgruuf encouraged them to tell the tale of the rescue. Beren, always a skilled storyteller, brought the tale to life. Balgruuf looked satisfied, and assured them that their reward of 2,000 golden Septims would be organised by Proventus and delivered under armed guard with the next few weeks. Then, with exhaustion and relief gripping their limbs, they politely excused themselves after a natural pause in the conversation signalled that their meeting was at an end.

The gentle tinkling of an enchanted bell hanging from a frame on his night stand forced Beric from his reverie, and despite several times stilling its clapper back into silence its insistent little chimes could not be denied forever. He groaned, stretched, groaned again, and reluctantly pulled himself from his bed. Naked, he crossed the narrow floor of his room to the washbasin that stood beside the dresser and wardrobe. He washed, and speculatively ran his hands over his face, and decided to shave tomorrow. He dressed quickly, automatically even, in the clothing in the fashion of Whiterun merchants. Comfortable black leggings and a blue shirt with golden thread edging, coupled with a dark dyed leather jerkin. Last a pair of highly polished oxblood cuffed boots, and a belt, heavy with his ebony roundel dagger and a small pouch for loose change completed the look.

The days were fast becoming routine despite the manic pace of the city. Whiterun was in the grip of festival season, the streets filled with festival goers as Harvest End filled the streets a day after their arrival, closely followed by Tales and Tallows. With that holiday over, preparations were now intensifying for Jeek's Day, to be held on the Seventh of Hearthfire. They celebrated around their work as best they could. All mornings Serana and Beric discretely sorted through endless paperwork, while between sunrise and late morning Erik, Beren, Lydia and Aela chopped firewood, ran the seven-mile circuit of the walls in full armour and practiced swordplay and archery. Their late morning was filled with paperwork and administration. In the afternoon Serana and Beric practiced their own swordplay and magic in the coolness of the large training hall that formed the ground floor of the East Wing, while the rest held court in the main hall or the office, receiving petitioners or granting private audiences as the case may be, often stretching into the early evening. A later dinner marked the end of the day, and often they would all gather around the fire of the main hall drinking a horn or cup or two and chatting away before retiring, exhausted, to bed. In this way the weeks had passed, and Last Seed slipped to Hearthfire.

Dressed, he left his room, walked down the corridor past Serana's and through the door to look from the gallery at the now bustling main hall below, where the last few remaining remnants from last night's festivities were being clean away by the estate's large household of servants and retainers. Tables with chairs and benches for seating were arranged around three sides of a large open-hearth fire, seating for the forty people they had entertained during last night's feast to mark Tales and Tallows. A pair of servants carried the remains of the spitted roast away while another teased a fire from the embers of the central firepit, preparing the room for the household's breakfast, still a few hours away. Other swept and mopped the floor, while more servants hurried past, carrying well water, plates and cutlery to dress the tables for breakfast. They appeared and disappeared via the large double doors in each of the four walls, marking the four compass aligned wings of the estate. Beric descended a staircase, nodded good mornings to their greetings as he crossed the hall and entered the west wing, moving down the hallway. The west wing was made up of three rooms arranged along a corridor, the first room was known as the map room, a magically secured meeting room named for its large wall hanging, the second room had been set up as an office, and the last as a library with a small alchemy set and enchanting laboratory, all hidden away from public eyes.

He entered the office, where a pair of windows opposite the door let in the faint rays of dawn, to which he added to with a touch of his fingers to the wicks of scattered candles. Handsome bookcases lined the walls, their shelves filled with books, scrolls, soul gems and assorted odds and sodds. Three larges solidly build desks of oak filled the room. Two arranged along the left-hand wall and one framed by the windows opposite the door, all looking inwards to the centre of the room where a faded Elsweyr rug lay before a large fireplace, cold for now. A small child's writing desk facing the wall and a pile of stacked firewood sat next to it.

Beric closed the door and walked past the desk closest to the door, upon which sat a small lockbox, two large leather-bound books, a neatly arranged writing set, and an abacus. Serana's late, he thought to himself in surprise as he picked up the sack of letters which Cassius Gallenus, the estate's steward, had hoarded in anticipation of their arrival. Half a year's worth of correspondence lay before him, courtesy of an extended campaign with an army manoeuvring in the wilderness of Skyrim, a pile which grew daily.

He collapsed into his chair and looked with the familiar creeping sense of early morning depression over the vacant desk space before him. Damn all couriers and their letters to oblivion, he though viciously. A large leather-bound blotter and a writing set sat in front of him, along with a pair of tankards, one overfilled with bent and broken quills, and another with penknives and pencils. Besides that, the desk was empty, with large spaces cleared to the left and right. With a frown he reached down, pulled a number of letters out and began sorting them, checking seals, splitting them with a dragonbone letter opener and reading them one by one. He swore quietly in his mind. By all the Divines it was dull work!

The jingles of the estate's keys on Serana's hip announced her arrival a few hours later. The door creaked open and looking paler then usual (if such a thing were possible) she slouched into the room wearing a nicely fitting merchant's dress of cream and crimson, accompanied by the scent of her lavender and honeysuckle perfume, which was currently failing at hiding the smell of alcohol. Beric looked up from the mountain of correspondence that now filled the right-hand side of his desk, relieved to have something else to do. He dropped his quill into its pot and leant back in his chair hands folded behind his head as he savoured the display.

"So, how did you find last night?" he asked with an evil little grin.

Serana gave a non-committal groan and fell into her chair, dropping her head onto her desk. He reached over and poked her elbow. She groaned in answer but didn't move, and he poked her again a few times until she gave a half-hearted swot at his hand and turned her head to look at him. Resting the side of her face on the cool leather of her accounting books, one hand clearing the strands of hair from her face as her eyes cracked open blearily.

"I was counting on you to make my morning as painless as possible. I've already run into Beren and the rest of them on their way to morning training and had enough abuse from them." She answered in a pained whisper.

"No mercy this morning I'm afraid. What do you expect, when you, Lydia and Aela hide yourself away in the corner all night giggling at everything and calling for more wine?"

"I call that socialising."

"What I did was socialising."

"You spoke to the three biggest bores in Whiterun."

"Rubbish, I never spoke to Nazeem."

"Ugh." She groaned.

"Professional socialising." He correctly himself. She shuddered.

"I've heard other words for it." she said archly, reaching out feebly to poke him back with a slender finger, which he trapped and then let slide from his hand. "You should have joined us, we were having a great time, a couple bottles of wine for each of us. We would have made space for you. It would have been just like Solitude." She gave a pained smile, and then closed her eyes as she seemed to relived the memories of last night in her head. She had loved Solitude's culture while they were there last winter and again for a short time during the Moot, and had missed it deeply once they had left. She was now doubtless savouring her memories of the good wine and music, played by professional bards and not some tavern skald with more enthusiasm than skill. She spoke again, quieter. "Or perhaps you're worried that its…. unprofessional….to drink so much…worried about bad behaviour." Beric stilled for a moment, uneasy and flicked his eyes over to glance at the closed door, and weighed his next words with care.

"I'm a legion officer, drinking is a professional hazard. It would however be unprofessional to be hungover." He tried to inflect some of his previous levity into his words.

''Ugh".

"Well said."

"Ugh." She groaned again, and then sighed and sat up, defeatedly staring into space. She finally opened the ledgers before her and looked with little enthusiasm at the stories they told in numbers written in neat little lines, one ledger written all in black ink and other all in red.

Beric reached over and handed her letters one at a time, summarising their stories as they piled up upon her desk like autumn leaves.

"Charity cases." He explained by way of introduction as he spread the opened letters across her desk. "and Pensions for the outgoings, Ransoms and Rewards in. This one is Argis's disability pension, and this one the pension for Valdimar's family. This is a request from Whiterun's Grand Temple of Kynareth for funds. This letter is the response to our ransom demand from the family of Jod Stone-Breaker, Housecarl to the late Jarl Skald. Also expect 2,000 golden Septims to be delivered today by the Jarl's Men." She took the letters and nodded at this, and started to work.

They had worked through the morning, and a maid dropped off a breakfast tray with two plates of bread, fruit, cheese and cold cuts which sat uneaten, though they savoured the two goblets of hot watered wine. Serana sat and worked her abacus as her hangover abated, updating the accounts in black and red ink, while Beric sat and read through letter after letter, request after request, sorting out what needed Beren's personal attention, writing replies that merely needed Beren's signature, and leaving to the side what could be rejected with a polite letter written by another. Pointless or timewasting requests went unanswered and were cheerfully lobbed into the cold hearth, alongside equally deluded love letters and death threats.

Harvest time was a madness of unending work, and he wrote replies and apologies to the stewards of the various estate of Whiterun, Hjallmarch, Haafingar, Falkreath and the Reach, noting their projected harvest yields and rents from the tenants, passing the numbers onto Serana. Lakeside Manor was reporting that several families on the estate were two months in rent arrears and were asking for guidance and extra manpower to bring in the harvest- a rather late request, he thought as he placed the letter to one side, hoping a solution would present itself. Next, a letter from Vignar Grey-Mane, updating them on the planned Foundation Day celebrations for The Companions, held to commemorate the arrival of Jeek of the River and the building of Jorrvaskr and foundation Whiterun. The Harbinger traditionally absorbed some of the costs out of his own purse as a gift, and the list of entertainments and providers was as extensive as it was expensive- food, wine, bards, minstrels, jesters, cooks.

Beric looked at the letter with special interest, sharp teeth nibbling the end of his quill, 'Jeek's Day' as it was informally known, had not been celebrated since the last Harbinger. After Jarl Balgruuf had declared Whiterun hold neutral in the civil war Kodlak Whitemane had guaranteed to defend that neutrality as Harbinger of the Companions, an act more of honour than of substance, but a powerful symbol given the respect the Companions held in Skyrim. An act moreover which drew sharp criticism from neutral commentators and Stormcloak sympathisers alike, but publicly Tullius, Elisif and Ulfric had all written letters in which they had sworn to respect the Harbinger's arbitration.

Ulfric however had broken his oath and marched upon Whiterun, blaming Balgruuf's provocation. While Beren had burned for revenge following Kodlak's assassination shortly after his return from Ustengrav. He had raged at Kodlak's death and alleged the Silverhand had acted as a cat's paw for the Stormcloak armies menacing the city. Newly declared dragonborn, he had sounding the horn of Jurgen Wind-caller from the gate and rallied the panicking city to victory against the Stormcloaks in their assault upon Whiterun in Frostfall 201. Many of the Companions had flocked to his side to uphold Kodlak's Oath as a last tribute to him, while those companions who had been Stormcloak sympathisers slipped away from the city or refused the call, the Grey-Manes most prominently amongst them.

All actions which had deepened the divide amongst and between the Companions, Whiterun and Skyrim as a whole. Beren's rapid elevation to Harbinger after the battle and him publicly denouncing Ulfric the following year had further alienated many Companions such that the celebrations had not been held in 202, Beren thought as he chewed harder on the quill. In the end Beren had went to war with only a handful of the hundred or so Companions as his back. The quill suddenly snapped in his mouth. Annoyed, he took it from his mouth and placed it with the others in the tankard filled with similarly nibbled quills. He hoped that with the war over and a good celebration the issue could be laid to rest, and he passed the letter to Serana to add her growing columns of black and red, to find the necessary cash. He did not double that the price of the festivities would continue to rise.

The next letter was heart breaking. A deathbed letter dictated by Rayya, Beren's Falkreath Housecarl. She had lost one leg and badly broken another during the siege of Windhelm, and the gangrene had been slowly killing her. It was fortunate that she had survived the road home. The letter was dated a month ago. She would have likely died while we were in Solitude, enjoying the hospitality of The Court of the Blue Palace, he thought guilty. Beren would have to write a personal reply to her family, while Beric selected a number of candidates to fill her post.

He had just finished writing a letter which sent several demobbed Whiterun soldiers requesting work and homes to Lakeview Manor when Erik and Beren burst into the office. Their faces still flushed from a morning of exercise in the yard, though they had washed the sweat from their limbs and dressed in clean clothes. Beren strode into the office, casually picked up a plate of food and cheerfully took it to the last great desk in the room. It stood alone, framed by the two windows and covered in an untidy mess of work and toys, which he threatened to dislodge as he threw his boots up onto his desk and placed his plate on his lap as he began eating with relish. He peaked out over great untidy piles of paper, kept in place by improvised paperweights-a pair of callipers, Nettlebane, a small hourglass, a skull. He leant back happily in his chair for the morning report and munched on a second breakfast.

"Good" Beric said in relief, standing up and putting down his quill. Erik had been given a number of chores upon arrival, the list of which grew almost daily. Letter writing was today's addition, and Beric tried his best to set the boy at ease.

"Erik, I've got a job for a man of your talents. I've got a number of replies to letters I need you to write that require a bit more polish in their hand and language than Beren or I can manage. Your father Thane Erikur paid for good tutors, straight from the Bard's College, which makes you." He sighed theatrically and gestured broadly at Erik and Serana "Ed-ja-ma-cated." She gave him a thin smile having heard this speech in similar veins many times. "us? not ed-ja-ma-cated." He continued, gesturing to himself and Beren, who grinned through bulging cheeks. "We'll put those talents to good use. We also need a couple of copies of letters for our own records made latter. Happy so far?" The boy nodded uneasily, not entirely sure if Beric's soldiery levity was humour or mockery.

Beric gestured to the schoolboy's desk that faced the wall next to the fire, and Erik quickly sat and Beric laid a couple of letters in front of him one by one, covering up the graffiti that Rihad had cut into the wood with his penknife.

"do you recognise this seal?"

Um…the Gray-Manes?"

"Yes, the Gray-Manes, an old Whiterun Clan. Read the letter, write a reply to Vignar Gray-Mane approving of their work, that the money will be made available, and leave it for Beren to sign and seal" Beren put the next letter down. "And this one?" He asked.

"Arch Mage of the College of Winterhold." Erik said quickly, more confident now but a little awed.

"Good. Savos Aren has offered 20,000 gold Septims per Elder Scroll if we well sell them to him. Write a polite reply apologising for the delay in our response. Then say no, politely but clearly. Our position has not and will never change, then leave if to be signed and sealed." Erik's eyes opened a little at this.

"And this one?"

"…that's the seal of the Elder Council." Erik said in a shocked whisper, scarcely daring to touch the fine vellum on which the letter had been written. Beric nodded.

"then write a letter to the Secretary to the Elder Council, apologising that they must be sadly misinformed as we don't have Ulfric Stormcloak's skull." Erik's eyes were popping out his head at this point, as he looked at the letters strewn in front of him.

"Sir, I've never heard of a Secretary that sits on Elder Council."

"Correct." Beric rapped out. "This is the secretary to the council, not the secretary on the council-they report to the council, but don't hold councillor rank. They should have picked a clearer title but unfortunately I'm not the man in charge of making those decisions." He finished with a dismissive shrug, and Erik looked only slightly relieved.

"Don't' worry- bring everything you write to me, I'll check it, Beren will sign and seal it and then you'll take it to the porter in the north wing for the courier." Erik nodded uneasily, and took up his quill and got to work.

Beric turned, picked up another pile of letters and walked to Beric's desk, who was busy juggling the skull after his second breakfast. He set it down on its jawbone and lent forwards, hand folded under his chin in keen interest.

"Another couple of letters from the Secretary to the Elder Council. The first is a simple message of greetings- High Chancellor Amaund Motierre has been appointed Potentate following the untimely death of the Emperor. The second is an order. The Elder Council wants your report on Tullius's campaign and your conduct and support during its execution. Specifically, your call to arms, the surrender and pardoning of the 10,000 after the Battle of Blizzard's rest and the siege and fall of Windhelm. Also, you need to write condolence letters to Rayya and Valdimar's family. Serana has made some arrangements this morning for a pension for their families." Beric nodded scowling at the skull where it sat grinning on its little pile, records of the death and misery its owner had caused in life. Beren pulled Rayya's deathbed letter towards him to begin writing a response in his untidy hand. With that Beric returned to his desk, and pulled yet more letters out of the sack. With this, the morning disruption to their routine ended.

* * *

It was early evening on the fifth of Hearthfire and Beric was practicing with his mace when Erik came to find him in the east wing training hall amidst the dummies and weapon racks. Erik walked uneasily over the chalked floors, gritted for grip, eyes transfixed by the ward spell he was maintaining in his off hand. Beric extinguished the magical shield, and the boy jumped in surprise as it flickered out.

"Yes?" He prompted, trying to be polite after finally escaping from his responsibilities for a brief period of deliberately mindless exercise. There was nothing quite like the release of weapons training after a morning's worth of paperwork, especially when it involved taking a mace to a training dummy.

"Sir, a herald has just arrived from the Court of the Blue Palace. He's refused to hand over his letter to me or to the porter. Says he was instructed to hand it over to the Dragonborn personally." Beric frowned at this. It was unusual for a herald to be send instead of a messenger, or for them to insist on such procedure except for the most sensitive and secure communications.

"Where is he?"

"I took him to the Map Room. It seemed the best place for him. I sent a servant to offer him some refreshments while he waits."

"Good. Where is Beren?"

"The Dragonborn is at Jorrvaskr with Aela, supervising the preparations for Jeek's day."

"Ok. Return to the map room. Tell him I'll be there shortly. Have a runner ready in case we need to fetch Beren, then find and brief Serana and Durag." He rapped out his orders and send Erik running, before placing his mace next to his bastard sword on the rack and pulling the sweat-dampened gambeson from his back with a grimace.

He washed and dressed quickly, and entered the first room on the ground floor of the west wing. the Map Room was a small cheerless room, without a fireplace and with its small windows walled over it had been set aside as a secure planning room. It had been powerfully enchanting by Serana to prevent scrying and other forms of espionage, magical or mundane. The room was a sparsely furnished box-bare whitewashed walls, a large oak table, twelve chairs. The only decoration a large tapestry upon one wall, depicting a great map of Skyrim, looted from Castle Volkihar. It had been here that Beren's personal declaration of war against Ulfric, oath-breaker to the truce of High Hrothgar had been debated, written and re-written over autumn last year. From the map room this unprecedentedly personal declaration, accompanied by the Dragonborn's call to arms had been despatched. It had rallied two full legions to his cause, motivated by a near-religious fervour for the chance to fight at the Dragonborn's side in an affair of honour, forces that had proven critical in the battles that had followed.

It was with guarded curiosity that Beric entered the room to take in the scene before him. The herald, a slender rat-faced little Breton with auburn hair was lounging in a chair at the distant head of their table, two burly guards standing at ease behind him. All wore non-descript clothes and cloaks, still coated in the dust of the road.

The Breton was looking around the room with muted distaste, seemingly taking its sparse furnishing as either a studied insult or an expression of the wealth and status of their owners. His bodyguards were a heavyset and scarred pair, a Dunmer and an Imperial, who had been relieved of their weapons but scarcely seemed less dangerous for it. The Breton did not stand when he entered, his herald's staff of office lay discarded on the table, while a large signet ring on his right hand ostentatiously displayed his personal rank and wealth. It caught the candle light as he impatiently drummed the letter with his long-fingered hands, a letter showing the ornate blue wax seal of the High Queen's court. Serana sat opposite him, arms crossed across her chest. She looked up when Beric entered the room and shook her head, angry. While Durag stood in the corner, leaning against the wall and grimacing with a face like a smacked arse.

Beric strode forwards and extended his hand politely by way of introduction.

"Good Afternoon, I am-"

"_Praefect_ Beric Stone-Strider" the messenger cut off, not stirring from his seat. Beric came to a stop and dropped his hand, giving him a measured look. No ordinary messenger would behave so undiplomatically, and a common man was unlikely to know him by face, or to address him so casually. A well-informed man of rank, who reckoned himself be several steps above a mere '_praefect_,' and secure enough in his position and mission to flaunt it.

"You have been offered refreshments?" He said neutrally.

"We have." The herald nodded. It seemed that they had been refused, for no cups or jug sat before them. Straight to business then.

"Is that the letter?"

"Yes."

"You and your men must be tired from your journey. If you hand over the letter can discuss matters after you have had a chance to wash and rest." The Breton shook his head at this, dismissing this last attempt at pleasantries.

"I was directed to hand it over to Beren Stone-Strider personally."

"And if you give it to me, he will get it." the messenger shook his head again.

"Personally." With that he lapsed into silence, his face a unemotive mask. Beric cocked his head to the side, looking at the little shit of a man. He turned to Serana and Durag. Both looked like they had received similar treatment. Beric turned on his heel and opened the door, something very wrong was afoot.

"Erik! Get me that runner! Now!"

* * *

Beren stomped into the room red faced. Beren ran his estate on simple principles. Beren did not like it when people forgot or ignored them. For all his virtues like bravery, loyalty and dedication, he had little experience or interest in diplomacy, politics or administration. He had however been wise enough to trust his friends and advisors with those issues, and made it publicly known they spoke with his voice and his authority. Beric prayed fruitlessly to divines who ignored his prayers that he would show a measure of diplomacy now that herald and Dragonborn were face to face.

"Who the fuck are you?"

Excellent start, Beric thought to himself.

"I am-."

"You will stand when you speak to me in my house." Beren cut him off with a growl, as veins pulsed dangerously in his temples. The Breton stood silkily.

"I am Marquis Reynald Masterfield, Herald. Here on behalf of the Court of the Blue Palace, bearing a letter from Steward Falk Firebeard." He stated this simply and directly, as much to announce his purpose as his protector. Beren held out a hand, palm upwards, and after a moment pause the Breton walked around the table and placed it in his hand, unable to meet Beren's eyes for longer than a few seconds. Beren turned his back on him abruptly and he stood there stupidly, rooted to the spot.

Beren ignored the man and walked back to where Beric, Serana and Durag stood against the wall. They checked the seal, and all confirmed it was correct and in good order. Beren cracked the seal and read the letter once, quickly. Whatever words were written there seemed not to his taste, and his express grew ever more shocked, ever more horrified, ever more angry with every word, every line he read. He turned and looked at the three at the far end of the table as though he would rend them limb from limb like a beast, taking deep steadying breaths as his hands shook. The Breton looked as if he was on the point of speaking again, but Beren forestalled him, raising an open palm the size of his head in warning. The Breton looked startled as the hand closed slowly into a fist on the air. The very gesture seemed to grasp and pull the breath from the man's lungs as he paled, silencing him. He turned back and read the letter again.

"You will take a reply."

"Yes. We have rooms in the Gildergreen Inn." With that Beren wrenched open the door and called as politely as he could manage.

"Erik." The boy came running at the call.

"Yes sir?"

"Show these men out."

"We can find the exit by ourselves." The Breton grumbled with what remained of his courage. Beren turned on him and fixed with a glare.

"Do." Beren rumbled.

The three of them skirted around the Dragonborn, whose bulk and stance forced them awkwardly against the wall. He had a good head and shoulders of height on all of them. None of them had the swagger or arrogance they had shown earlier, and small patches of sweat marked their clothes. Erik looked at them with open curiosity before he moved to close the door behind them.

"Cunt." Beren said just loud enough for the Breton to hear before the door swung shut, and he saw the thin muscles in the man's back stiffen for a moment as he walked out the door. Smart move Beric thought to himself, and for a moment he wondered idly how news of the Dragonborn kicking a messenger to death would be received by the Court. Not well, not well at all, he thought bitterly as he sunk into one of the chairs, suddenly exhausted and with his head in his hands.

To his surprise Beren collapsed into the one next to him.

"What's the letter say?" he asked, as any number of increasingly horrifying and unlikely scenarios ran through his head. Harkon, Miraak or Aldiun back from the dead? An invasion of Redguard pirates? A Second Great War?

"It's an invitation for divorce and marriage."

"What?"

"See for yourself." He said bitterly, pushing the letter across to him.

_20th Last Seed, 4E 201_

_From Falk Firebeard at the Court of the Blue Palace, Solitude to Beren Stone-Strider, Dragonborn, Whiterun._

_Greetings,_

_I have been directed on behalf of our newly crowned High Queen to make certain enquiries for the preservation of the new-found peace and stability in Skyrim, and all of Tamriel. The High Queen, the beloved Elisif the Fair has mourned her husband and honoured his memory through victory in the war she fought for him. She now rules alone with no companion to share the burdens of lordship._

_The measures we all took in those dark days were enforced by dire circumstance, the fear of immanent death and the needs of duty keenly felt. We should not allow joyous celebrations of hard-fought peace to blind us to our current responsibilities. The future will require a similar sense of duty no less onerous if peace is to be maintained for the good of Skyrim, the Empire and its peoples._

_Elisif is young, her beauty is widely known to all and she has a great fondness for you, the man she calls her Dragonborn. Put aside Aela, propose marriage to Elisif the Fair, and you may take up your place at her side, enthroned as her consort._

_We look forward to your swift response conveyed with our most trusted courier._

_Kind Regards_

_Falk Firebeard_

Beric re-read the letter, though it seemed scarcely less insulting the second time around. He passed it across the table to Serana with trembling hands. She read it, swore quietly under her breath and passed it to Durag as he got up and called for a servant to bring them water and wine.

The room was very still and quiet as the drinks were brought and the door clicked shut. The magical seals glowed for a minute as they activated, blocking any and all prying ears and eyes. Beren broke the silence with a low rumble.

"I want you all to swear to me now, that not a single breath of our conversation here tonight will escape this room."

"I swear it by the Nine."

"I so swear, by my blood and my ancestors."

"by Malacath, I swear it now and forever."

Beren looked around the room. Lost, angry, afraid.

"What do we do?"

* * *

**Author's Notes**

Hello everyone, thanks very much of reading chapter 3. I enjoyed writing this chapter for the chance to see our characters relax, have fun and enjoy themselves after the stress of chapters 1 & 2- unfortunately it didn't last very long before the work started piling up. As a result, there was a lot of different character moments, world building and politics which needed to be put into this chapter. Some parts I'm not completely happy with but I felt aren't going to get any better at the moment with more tinkering, so I decided to publish after getting it to a standard I was reasonably happy with. I'm anxious to hear your thoughts and advice on the matter.

As a consequence of the issues above, this chapter grew in the writing such that I needed to divide it into two- chapter four, tentatively titled 'the Politics of Peace' will be released next month, Hopefully on 01/06/19. That is work and travel dependent and it may be delayed a couple of days. Apologies in advance as I will always aim to release on the 1st of every month.

Please review and tell me what you liked, and what I can improve on. Will try to take your advice onboard and incorporate it as best I can.

Cheers!

**Responses to reviews**

Hello again HermitWitch, thanks for taking the time to review this.

Thanks very much for the feedback- this chapter was an opportunity to road test a lot of difficult things -characterisation, exposition etc. The back-and-forth conversations that I need to nail for chapter 4, and chapter 5 is probably going to require some more epic storytelling to sell 'Jeek's Day.' Plus, Erik moaned a lot about irrelevant shaggy dog stories in chapter 1 so it was only fair I give it a go!

Beric's paperwork was a difficult but necessary solution- selling the scale of the world, the politics and their responsibilities within it without it becoming a passive info dump, all through the eyes of a staff officer.

I was attempting to humanise the problems within the world through estate management, homeless veterans, party business with former enemies, and the families of dead housecarls. Doing all that while developing character-teasing a hungover vampire or encouraging an earnest squire helps develop Beric as a POV character was an attempt at keeping it entertaining. In short, it was an attempt to try and do a couple things at once, and I'm very relieved you found it engaging.

As for Elisif, I believe her depiction in game is accurate for Last Seed 401, but it's now Hearthfire 403 and she's grown past 'malleable continuity candidate.' Chapter 1 helps show that, with her execution of the traitor Jarls as a prelude to the moot which resulted in her unanimous election as High Queen. She's become a capable independent political actor and probably the most powerful woman in the Empire.

With Ulfric dead, Elisif is fully engaged in reconstruction of her bellowed Skyrim, which makes Beren's position awkward. He loves Aela, but Beren has also lost a lot of friends for peace, and Chapter 2 helps show how awful that war was. With how he raised two legions by myth and personality has a stake in the game, like it or not. He is motivated by emotion and the personal, as his declaration of war versus Ulfric shows.

In contrast, Elisif's position is pragmatic and political. Historically, marriage alliances have always been a tool of foreign policy, and even the 'virgin queen' Elizabeth I wooed potential suitors to play allies and enemies off each other. Meanwhile, 'Angry Beren' is well out of his depth. With the four of them now locked in a windowless soundproof room chapter 4 will be interesting….

Hey GreyWolf93, good to hear from you again.

One of the pieces of advice I found was that you should try to make the hero's greatest strength also their greatest weakness. And then attack them with it. As you note, Ned for example is honourable, brave and compassionate. All great values for a leader on the battlefield. However, when he gets to king's landing all those values are weaknesses.

Beren lacks the stoicism of ned- he's much more like Robert in his youth- gregarious, charismatic, but also hot blooded and quick to anger. We can see why he would rally people to his cause in war, but also why peace doesn't suit him. Elisif proposing marriage is fun to write (and hopefully fun to read) because all of his strengths are useless, his skills are irrelevant while his weaknesses as a man are laid bare.


	4. Chapter 4: The Politics of Peace

**Chapter Four: The Politics of Peace**

**Serana I**

"I want you all to swear to me now, that not a single breath of our conversation here tonight will escape this room."

"I swear it by the nine." Came Beric's response, clipped and firm from across the table.

"I so swear, by my blood and my ancestors." She affirmed with a nod.

"By Malacath, I swear it now and forever." Durag growled next to her.

Beren looked around the room. Lost. Angry. Afraid. His mischievous blue eyes now without levity or humour, searching theirs for the hope of a solution.

"What do we do?"

No one answered. Serana sat neatly in her chair, legs crossed and arms folded on her lap as she watched the two men who sat opposite her. Beric was still as a stone. Hunched forwards, hands clasped in front of his face. His piercing blue eyes narrowed as he stared with such intensity at the map over her shoulder that she was quite certain that he had Elisif herself ducking and looking behind her in alarm. Beside him Beren fidgeted quietly, eyes closed as his fingers slowly massaged his temples, calming himself with the repetitive, almost meditative motion, seemingly determined to get through the next few hours without screaming someone down. Durag was seated to her right, where he grimaced and quietly rubbed the pain from his leg without conscious thought.

There was absolute silence in the room. The thick stone walls naturally muffled sound, but when they had bought the house in the autumn last year, Beren had been specific in his instruction to her for improving its security, in addition to the magical muffling on the tapestry which so dominated the room. She promised she would do her best, and she did. No scrying or far-hearing spells could get into the room that she sealed with the vampire magics her mother had designed and taught her, which she had then applied with expert precision that filled her with pride. However, she had overlooked how the enchantments she used had been designed with vampires, not mortals in mind, and so not even air could enter once the seals around the door engaged. The result was that the room was quick to become filled with stale air, heavy with the unpleasant aromas of the hard-working and stressed. Durag had passed out once from these effects, and time was doubly against them as Aela could find their occupation of the rarely-used room curious. She glanced anxiously at Durag and Beren, for the air was already heavy with the scents of Orc and Nord. Both were still caught up in the chaos that the letter's arrival had caused.

She swallowed to clear her throat and broke the silence.

"…. Beren, what are you going to tell Aela?" she was surprised at how her voice cracked in sympathy for her, and he shuddered as though scourged.

"…Beren can work that out latter, we need a plan. Now." Durag was anxious, and he leaned forward and taped the table with his forefinger to underline his point. There was no timepiece in the room, they could easily be used to hide a listening or scrying device.

"Lady and Gents, let's calm down and understand the situation first." Beric stilled them with a calm wave of the hand and a glance at them both, before he turned to his younger brother. Beren sighed, and leant back, running his hands through his hair before folding them behind his head. He looked as tired as Serana had ever seen, the crow's feet and thin wrinkles that crinkled his youthful face and his forehead suddenly starkly illustrated under the rooms unwavering magical lantern-light. He looked around the room, careful to make and maintain eye contact with each and every one of them as long as they were able to bear it as he spoke in a low, measured voice.

"This is going to be a difficult night for all of us. I love Aela, and every one of you is a dear friend. I know I am a difficult man when angry, but I have always welcomed your bravery in giving me honest advice. Even when I have not wanted to hear it….we have all been through too much for this to break us."

He finished, gesturing dismissively at the letter before Durag. He then paused for a second in thought, staring at nothing as a range of confused and conflicting emotion half played out across his face and behind his eyes.

"Beric's right- let's start with what and why. Then we can start with the who, the where, the how. What…what's Elisif's political motivation for this? Why has she done this?" he rambled, gesturing in confusion as his thoughts got away from him.

"Elisif is securing her position, and she is afraid of you, but not of the fight that may come. To write this boldly is not a negotiation, for all that it coaches itself in diplomatic niceties and speaking of '_enquiries_.' This is a demand, and it's a threat."

Durag stated with brutal simplicity, circling the words on the letter before him as he continued, warming to the topic with a scholarly enthusiasm.

"The civil war was simple- it was a war for Skyrim's heart, and Skyrim's heart was cut into three- the Stormcloaks, the Imperials, and the third part made up of the undecided, uncommitted or neutral. Elisif stood with the Imperials when that was dangerous and unfashionable. Now there are only two parts of Skyrim remaining. Those who stood by must fall into line willingly, or be forced, for the good of '_the preservation of the new-found peace and stability in Skyrim.'_ You are the only major neutral leader other than Balgruuf, who I would not be surprised to learn is also getting similarly threatening treatment. To allow you to remain independent would represent an obstacle to her mission to reunite Skyrim into one. A marriage would be a solution and a symbol to all of that- and Elisif understands the value of such demonstrations very well."

Durag spoke insistently, leaning forwards and holding Beren's gaze, ticking down his fingers from three to two to one as he spoke with fervent eloquence. She shook her head at this and waved the argument aside, and Beren snapped his head around and looked to her like a drowning man to distant land.

"Durag's right about the war, but wrong about her motivations. Elisif's strength is a façade, in truth she's desperate for allies. The military governor General Tullius controls the legions and they take their orders from the Potentate, not her. Most of her money was borrowed by the Imperials, and what few troops she has are scattered…She may have the affection of Haafingar's people, but the Moot shows that her leadership and peace rests upon what fear she could instil amidst the few puppet jarls she installed. Once the legions leave, so will the fear, and all she'll have are unpaid debts and enemies. You've proven your strength, as Durag said. She's afraid, and trying to claim that strength for herself."

She paused for a moment, deep in thought, and struggling with the still unfamiliar context, and frustrated still at how this 'modern Tamrielic' still robbed her of her eloquence. Elisif was a sign of the times, that she knew for certain. The Empire, for all that Beric had told her of its historical strength had rotted from within, and weak leadership from incompetent or inexperienced leaders had been to blame for it. She could remember a time when Harald of the line of Ysgramor had campaigned with his own armies to unite Skyrim, and even across the gulf of defeat and war from him she respected his strength and vision as a worthy king. Elisif was a unworthy weak pretender, lurking in the shadows of greater men and women, reliant upon the warp and weave of words over weapons.

Perhaps that was too unkind, she thought for a moment. Elisif was pleasant enough in person, and she personally wished her no ill-will. But a woman who could not march to war to win her own crown and kingdom was no High Queen of Skyrim in her eyes. She had told Beren as much, and she regretted how inarticulate she could be compared to Durag when it came to these things. She had told Beren to present himself as a contender at the Moot, that the Jarls would fall over themselves to offer him the throne willingly, it would result in a bloodless victory and a coronation all Skyrim could celebrate. He had rejected it, shocking her with the revelation that he stood as her champion, together with a confused tumble of refusals; it was unthinkable, he was oath-sworn to Elisif, that he had fought a war to punish such traitorous behaviour, honour and loyalty demanded otherwise, that convention had changed, and alleging that instead of uniting Skyrim it would lead to another war of succession between the claimants. She had doubted that, and said so, sharply asking what was the point of a Moot if it wasn't contested. Suddenly she realised Durag was shaking his head, and looked like he was going to interrupt her but Beren looked thoughtful and so she continued.

"Look at her advisors- Thane Erikur, Melaran, Viarmo, Falk, and all the others. I bet they're behind this. They've told her to get married and she's panicked and written a letter because she doesn't want to marry a Black-Briar or an ageing Jarl or some pot-bellied Breton..."

She finished rather lamely, and Durag snorted at this, and shook his head again, unwilling to stay silent any longer. He shifted his leg under the table awkwardly, the dwemer prosthetic that he had built irritating the stump of his right leg as it scrapped across the flagstones.

"That's just Stormcloak propaganda, Falk wrote this letter, why would he send it? If Elisif is as weak as you say he would just talk her out of it. She's weighed the risks and committed to this; she can't back down now."

Beren looked frustrated at how the people who had tutored him in the mysteries of the Elder Scrolls were now giving him contradictory and conflicting advice on something as seemingly straightforward as this. He turned to Beric, unimpressed.

"You've been unusually quiet for someone who's met Elisif the most over the past few years."

Beric glanced at Beren in surprise, then looked thoughtful for a moment. She knew that he had a good head for how the politics of nobles affects the lives of the common people, but that he still though himself half a peasant, and was unused and uncomfortable on being directly asked his opinion on the noblest in the land.

"I've met Elisif maybe a dozen times." He mumbled carefully by way of introduction as he gathered his thoughts, before dropping his clasped hand from his face.

"I first met her…. Last Seed 201? Fresh from the college, and taking my apprenticeship with the Dawnguard. The damned vampires were running rampant around Skyrim, no-one knew why. Anyway, the Dawnguard were popular, they were hiring, and they paid well."

He rubbed his fingers and thumb together in a sardonic gesture to underscore the last point. He was setting the stage carefully, and perhaps laid it on a bit thick for effect. Durag had joined them in Solstheim, and they all had been happy to leave any number of unpleasant little secrets undisturbed and hidden from his eyes and ears, and the rest of the story took on a more clipped and assertive air.

"I was assigned to a patrol and we travelled up from Riften, investigated a dead lead in Dimhollow crypt before arriving at our post in Solitude. I would not recommend that route."

That was leaving out their first meeting and the little detour Beric and her had taken which had resulted in him leaving her stranded on the shores of her Island home while he paddled through the surf like he was taking part in Riften's single scull championships, racing for Northwatch. The last man alive from his patrol, and seemingly quite determined to stay that way for the immediate future.

"After that journey I was looking for some reinforcements for the Dawnguard, and Elisif made a point of holding open audiences on Middas afternoons-Market day. The supplicants were carefully searched, and vetted. Back then I suspect that her advisors were happy to let her play Jarl listening to farmers and fishermen, usually with an advisor or member of the court to nursemaid her." He nodded at her to acknowledge her earlier point.

"Varnius, the man ahead of me was from Dragonbridge, and he was talking wildly of necromancers and foul magics. Clearly out of his depth but full of fear and passion, and something else. Something which suggested there was something beyond superstition at play. I knew even then that Jarls prefer it when you offer solutions instead of problems, so I was going to volunteer to lead the raid in exchange for a few volunteers from the dungeons and hopefully the support of a handful of guards."

"Before I could make the offer her court mage Sybille Stentor overruled her. It was humiliating for her to be fair, being lectured publicly like that before the people she should be leading. Varnius was pushed aside. I stepped up, said my piece about the Dawnguard- who we were, what we were doing and she listened respectfully and promised what help she could give. And then, just at the end, she reminded me to speak to Varnius."

Beside him Beren sat back, calm and listening intently, brow furrowed in thought as he folded his hands under his chin, wondering where this story that he'd heard before was going. Beside her, Durag was listening intently, eyes narrowed, having never heard Beric tell the tale before. Serana listened intently as Beric told a carefully crafted story to hide her origins and vampirism.

"I found Serana in Solitude with a few others, we cleared out Wolfskull cave and then the catacombs under Solitude, all of them packed with necromancers and vampires. That got me a private audience with Elisif, where she sent me off to talk to you Beren. Meanwhile Sybille was embarrassed and exposed twice over. Elisif organised a trial and we learnt what scum Sybille was. Turned out Sybille was a spy for the Volkihar and was burnt alive. Meanwhile Tullius was summoned to the Palace to explain to a woman less than half his age why he was ignorant of what was happening within his own Castle, what he was going to do to recover Solitude's trust, and how he was going to secure his home base and protect his supply lines. Come the spring you, me and Serana along with 3,000 Dawnguard cleared out Castle Volkihar, supported by Imperial navy ships and Legion siege weapons and engineers."

"Exposing Sybille made Elisif- a lot of important people ended up with egg on their face. But Elisif was new and blameless, and had appointed Viarmo Master of the Revels at court, so none of it ended up on her. The Bard's college made sure everyone knew it was the Jarl they had to thank for exposing the spy and bringing the newly-discovered Dragonborn in to remove the Volkihar menace."

At this Beric leaned forward, happy with his story and leapt into his conclusion, ticking his points off on his fingers.

"I've met her a few times since then. I would say her strengths are this- a genuine care her people, good instincts, and a willingness to listen to her advisors. I would also say she shows a certain bravery and creativity which is unusual for the hide-bound court. But she's still over-reliant upon her military and economic advisors, and she's hesitant when faced with firm opposition. Nothing has changed there."

Serana disagreed, and leaned forwards to make her point. Beric might mince his words when it came to her indecisiveness, but Elisif was of royal blood, a rank she had held in life, and she judge her and make her point plainly.

"Beric, I love Solitude more than anyone you know, but I'm not naïve enough to claim that Elisif's bards and public goodwill resulted in victory in the war she claims to have won. That requires sworn-swords and shield-maidens, which she lacks. She was put on a Jarl's Throne, and did nothing but ride Beren's or Tullius's coat tails to the Jagged Crown. If she has to act, she only knows one trick when faced with a crisis. She killed Stentor, and then the Jarls a year later. Execution is her 'go-to' plan, she's nothing if not predictable."

"Ah yes, this is a completely normal situation." Beric deadpanned, unimpressed at being called naïve, and Serana riled at this, drawing up her own memories of the events.

"it was rumoured that Sybille Stentor liked saying that Elisif was only the Jarl because her husband died, and she would follow him shortly just like all the others she had seen. She demanded massive sums for private personal experiments, while she either failed to discover or report on vampire threats. At every moment she publicly claimed she was indispensable to the running of the city, even as the evidence mounted to suggest otherwise. She was an extravagant, arrogant idiot without friends, who counted upon people to ignore the evidence that she flaunted before her eyes. It didn't take a political mastermind to expose her."

She was angry now, for she has little patience for the arrogance and display that some vampires postured with, toying with the idea of outrageous public behaviour and counting on the laxity of the powerful and ignorance and gullibility of the commoners. She blamed that idiotic book _Immortal Blood,_ some foppish thin-blood had written to provocatively shock and delight the mortal races of Tamriel. Too often it backfired, as the riled-up commoners succumbed to mass paranoia and the vampire to a messy end.

"And yet people didn't because they were afraid of her, of what they might find out. Elisif wasn't, she was alone and she had the courage to act." Durag growled as Beric nodded in agreement. Serana bristled at this, listening to them allow another to claim a victory that they had fought and won for themselves, she snapped back at Durag, anger filling her voice.

"People say Elisif was the first to move against the Volkihar, that she was the second to recognise you as the Dragonborn. But her star rose with yours. She needs Beren. We never needed her!"

"Enough!" Beren snarled, crashed his fist on the table and stood up at this, chair screeching across the flagstone floor and tipping over with a crash. They instantly fell silent. He violently wrestled it upright where it teetered for a moment on its legs before settling, then turned and paced up and down. Trapped in the narrow space between wall and table, his bulk and steady tread dominating the room, head down in thought, arms clasped behind his back. She felt guilty and outraged in equal measure at how were sniping at each other.

"It's clear that you're never going to agree on why Elisif is done this." Beren snapped suddenly. None of them responded to this, as they sat and watched him pace a steady tread on the flagstone floor. Suddenly he stopped, turned and gripped an empty chair with intensity as he leant forwards.

"How strong is she?" he asked, nodding at Durag for an answer, caught off guard he spluttered for a moment, stuttering as he tried to gather his thoughts.

"In brief." He warned.

"She has three puppet Jarls-Brina, Kraldar and Brunwulf, in addition to Balgruuf and Igmund who will need to demonstrate their loyalty given their personal or hold histories. The resources that the Imperials utilised for this war have been carefully tailed on her orders, and are rumoured to amount to a debt of 3 or 4 million Septims. There is the legion in Solitude, and the other legions in Eastmarch all under General Tullius's orders, the latter at least until they leave and the Military Governorship ends. For now, she could count on three of the five of those legions, and maybe the army of High Rock. Finally, she has the love and support of many of the common people for ending the Volkihar after the Dawnguard disintegrated."

"And you Serana?"

"Maven is the only Jarl that could move against her- she was the one that turned Riften and Laila over to us when Beric and I marched south with the Bretons. She has friends on the Elder Council who voted for the Potentate, already has Jarl Siddgeir in her pocket, and her daughter is engaged to Erikur's son which gives her a spy in Elisif's court and council. The others?"

She thought for a moment before continuing. The fact that Erik was his squire did not need to be mentioned. It had been an uncomfortable surprise condition of the surrender of Riften that she and Beric had arranged with Maven.

"Balgruuf is an old man, and worse Igmund is an old man without an obvious heir and too many bastards. Neither one of them will be a useful long-term ally. The three or four million doesn't help much either. That's money they owe, not money she has. Maybe she could borrow against it if she had warning, but she has little ready cash. When the Military Governorship ends and the troops leave, she will have direct control over a single legion, quartered in Solitude along with her royal guard, hold troops and maybe a few mercenaries…I wonder if she's scared of a future coup, that maybe you'll just stride into the palace and kill her like Ulfric did Torygg, and she thinks she can prevent it now, on her terms." Serana said, then blushed as she realised that she was rambling aloud. Beric looked like he wanted to put his head through the table. Behind him Beren raised a finger menacingly, looking like it was her head he wanted to put through a table. He growled a warning so low and loaded with menace that it sent a shiver racing down her spine.

"Watch yourself now Serana, I am honour-bound and oath-sworn as her champion, and you are speaking treason."

She coloured, embarrassed at being lectured and clenched her jaws together, her fangs pricking the inside of her mouth as she bit back her unwise response. _Honour cuts both ways Beren, and Elisif has dishonoured you with this request!_ Beren was starting to get frustrated, and the air was getting stale and dense around them, thickening with their scents of sweat and frustration, while making the mortals lightheaded. Beren looked around the room with a shake of his head, losing faith and patience and snorted in anger.

"Thanks, Serana and Durag, this has been really fucking useful so far."

Serana scowled at the language and sarcastic tone. Beren ignored her, and resumed his silent pacing.

"Does she honestly think that?" Beren whirled back to her and asked, suddenly, quietly. Serana answered, taken aback at this sudden change.

"…I think it's a possibility. Your declaration against the oath-breaker Ulfric united commoners and nobles together, and to raise two legions for the cause in a few weeks when the Imperial had been trying for months must have been embarrassing. For all the love that the Nords had for Elisif, when push came to shove, they chose to follow you over her."

"I can't see the Imperials sitting still if you deposed her without good cause." Beric put in.

"They only got involved because Ulfric tried to succeeded from the empire after a botched duel. If you proclaimed that this letter was an insult which dissolved your sworn oaths then few would question it, nor if you challenged her to a Duel to uphold your families honour." She said uneasily, unwilling to be party to planning the murder of a High Queen, and was then surprised to find Beren racing ahead of her thoughts.

"Amaund Motierre would probably look favourable on it too. Look at how he handled the death of the Emperor back in the spring. He saw the dangers of delay, organised the vote in the Elder Council and emerged as Potentate. He's decisive and pragmatic, and utterly focused upon the threat of the Thalmor. If Elisif was removed than the legions in Eastmarch could return to the border..."

Serana suddenly felt very uneasy at the excitement with which Beren spoke, and the direction that things were going. She had no desire to fight another war, to see another siege, risk another battle for a long, long time. Durag suddenly spoke, low and guttural from where he sat to her right, raising his head from the letter he had been closely studying.

"This is about more than just Skyrim- as the letter says- it's about Tamriel- the past, the present, and the future all spinning back around. _The future will require a similar sense of duty no less onerous if peace is to be maintained for the good of Skyrim, the Empire and its peoples_. She's not just thinking about Skyrim, she's thinking about Titus Mede's death…The Potentate vote was rushed, and how long can that last before a Dynasty arises? As High Queen of Skyrim, she's the biggest contender…. By Malacath, this is about The Ruby Throne...the Dragons were new, but Dragonborn…. well there's been lots of those and…"

At these ominous words everyone sat still, those still breathing catching their breath in their throats as the air grew heavier and thicker and the breathable air slowly ran out. Many of them were already light headed and taking shallow breaths, but it was not just the lack of air that was now having that effect. Much of what they had discussed that evening was nearly or outright treasonous and promised their own deaths if word ever escaped, but the ambitions of which Durag spoke could set an entire continent awash and afire in a wave of blood, cinder, and ash. Serana could see an ember flicker in Beren's eyes as he watched unblinkingly, while Beric looked unconvinced by Durag's flowery oratory and rhetorical questions. Durag seem so shocked, so stunned by this proposed revelation he seemed to have forgotten all those around him as he concentrated on divining of the ambitions motivating their young queen. Still thinking aloud, he whispered out a final sentence into the still silent air.

"…What does the Last Dragonborn do, now the Dragons are gone?"

And with that Serana saw that smouldering ember spark in flame, deep in the back of Beren's eyes, awed at the barest suggestion of destiny, unveiling itself before them. The answer was obvious. The last time a Dragonborn had conquered Skyrim for another they had marched south at the head of an army, removed a pretender to the throne and, following the murder of their monarch, seized it for themselves. She shuddered as a chill ran up her spine, by the Blood, no wonder Elisif wanted Beren by her side!

There was a very pregnant pause at this as they pondered this, Serana sat deep in thought, stunned like the rest into silence. Beren had been a reluctant participant in the civil war. He had ignored it before he was revealed as The Last Dragonborn and then for much of 202. Instead, he had clung to what Durag, ever the academic, had been quick to call a 'too literal and overly reductive' interpretation of the Last Dragonborn Prophecy, though she and Durag had disagreed on that too. Beren, like her had seen little role for themselves in the smaller affairs of mortals and their squabbles for temporary power, in comparison to Durag's urgings. While the Imperials and Stormcloaks had walled themselves up in their keeps against the dragons and vampires and fought inconclusive bloody battles throughout the lands and over the seas, Beren had ventured out, crushing the true enemies of Skyrim- vampire, cultist and dragon alike, driven by a sense of destiny.

When Aldiun had been slain, he had been at a loose end, the prophecy that had motivated him with singular vision seemingly complete, and a fragile peace forged by his diplomacy resting over the land. She had begun to make plans to leave with Beric for the College, happy to ignore a pointless conflict that might at any moment flare up again. Meanwhile, raised on tales of the numerous destructions of his own homeland Durag had incessantly nagged Beren to intervene to protect his own from fragmentation and ruin but, just as every Stormcloak violation of his peace treaty had itched like a rash, these arguments did not rouse him. It had instead been the slow awaking of a sense of the hand of fate at play, a sense which, like the avalanches she had seen come crashing down the slopes of the Druadach Mountains, came slow and small at first, barely noticeable before suddenly immense and inescapable in its speed and power.

It had been Durag then too, who had suggested that it fell to Beren to create his destiny as much as to follow it. Harkon had not been mentioned, nor had Miraak. The prophecy had simply stated that_ the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn_ and it was for him to re-order the world as he saw fit, unconsciously at first, but then consciously as he willed it. It was simply too much of a coincidence for him to appear but then to stand by and claim that he had no part to play in these events. Durag had always maintained that even though the Aedra were weak and barely godlike, there was some sliver of consciousness, some impulse that had shaped Beren, to put him at this time and this place, and that seductive thought had worried away at him like a splinter under a nail.

Beren, even after taking the cure, did not sleep well as a rule. He slept even poorer after that, loosing himself to pacing in sleepless nights as autumn began to turn to winter, filled with restless energy by day and disturbed sleep by night, obsessed with the idea as it played at his mind. She could understand the visions and nightmares that haunted a person's sleep, and, in a private moment of honesty, had told Beren of some of her own dreams, things she had only shared with her mother and Beric before, as a kind gesture hoping to lessen their weigh through shared pain. She had been surprised when Beren gently refused to talk of his own dreams, though she doubted that they could be worse that those which crippled the sleep of a vampire.

But who knew what dreams or thoughts had become snared in a mind which had read three Elder Scrolls and walked away unharmed when others were driven mad? The idea absorbed him like nothing else. Perhaps he, at some unconscious level, simply understood the will of those Scrolls, or of the Aedra who had made this world? Perhaps they had imprinted deep within his head, and then at a single stroke of brilliance he had, at one moment simply understood a possible destiny and then made it so? For all the time she had spent sleeping with an Elder Scrolls, its gentle song filling her head in her ages-long dreamless suspended sleep she knew little of their secrets or effects.

Or perhaps, another darker voice spoke to her from within, he was frustrated by the impotence of peace, and felt the need for revenge and a display of power and dominance like all Dragons, and he had given his personal vendetta an Aedric cloak to make such a personal grievance acceptable to his mortal, Aedra worshiping followers. They had all been curious at Miraak's power, and when Beren had used it thrice to break Viinturuth and Ohadviing and then kill Aldiun. He had revelled in knowing such power for himself, to bend and break those mighty creatures, if not slaves in body, then at least broken and shackled in mind and spirit to be called upon at will. Beren had once explained that his mentor amongst the greybeards had told him that to know a word of power is to become it at some level- force, wrath, fury- she knew well the power and the dangers of allowing such heady desires to play to their darkest ends, to revel in the sense of Gods-given power once more. He would not be the first man to claim divine motivation or prophetic justification for their own petty wants and desires and thirsts. She shuddered and put such thoughts aside- Beren was not Harkon, he was not her father.

In the end, Beren had promised her one last quest, just one last adventure, and she had resigned herself to it as one last favour, for a friend. But now, another was in the offing and she felt he would never stop asking her to follow at his side. In truth, she suspected it was simply not possible for a Dragonborn to accept peace, in the histories she had read since her awakening the impulse towards action seemed simply ingrained into them, just as they would never stop in their search to rally men and women to their standard, their vision, calling them to abandon their own lives in search of a greater shared destiny, even as the man struggled to maintain his life, his family and his sense of self. She knew then that he would never stop her from leaving, nor would never think to tell her to go pursue her own dreams. Just as he stood now confused and certain, exhausted yet animated, war-worn yet peace-wearied.

Suddenly, a screaming wail filled the room and they all jumped in alarm as the doorknob screamed its shrill warning. Beren, eager for the distraction jumped to the door and wrenched it open, practically pulling it off its hinges. Erik, still holding onto the other side of the enchanting doorknob almost came stumbling into the room as he yelped in surprise.

"Helargh…." He managed by introduction. He brushed his dirty blonde mop of hair from his brown eyes and he looked around nervously at the four of them staring at him in surprise and alarm at this unwanted interruption.

"Sorry Sir. I'm sorry to bother you but there's been some sort of murder or duel or something between the Battle-Borns and the Grey-Manes, and they want to talk to you about it for Jeek's day as they've made it an issue for The Harbinger's judgement. Aela's on her way back from Jorrvaskr with the some of the Circle."

Beren had never looked so happy to hear that a dead man had just become his problem, and looked like he could kiss Erik in happiness. Fresh air flooded into the room like a breath, heavy with the noise of the house and the fresh scents of the city. She could smell the ovens with their fresh bread baking, and the sprigs of sweet-smelling herbs that hung from beams and rafters in the main hall. She could hear rain striking the roof tiles and the wind shaking the walls.

"Oh Erik. Thank the Divines, yes, I'll be right there, just give us a minute."

He closed the door, and slummed into a chair for a minute, head in his hands as he gathered his thoughts. For all their talking, they had solved nothing, and his frustration was obvious when he spoke.

"We're getting no-where. All we've done is fuck about and waste time talking out of our arses. Here's what we're going to do. Meet back here at eight of the clock. We now all understand the situation as best we can. At eight, each one of you will give me your plan for how to deal with this."

Beren rapped out his orders quickly and they all moved to leave, the mortals exhausted by their extended incarceration. Beric swiftly got up and rested a hand on Beren's shoulder who looked up in shock and then resignation. His expression suggesting that at this point he welcomed death.

"Durag can you go and tell Aela that Beren and I will be five minutes, there's just a few more details that we need to sort out."

"Uhh, yeah Beric sure." Durag said, taken by surprise. They cleared the room, and the door clicked shut behind them.

* * *

Serana stood by an open window in the library, watching the wind-driven autumn rains fall on her herb garden and listening to the gentle ticking of the repaired Dwemer timepiece on the fireplace mantle and the warm crackle of the fire in its grate. The Library was an intimate, quiet space, the fireplace was surrounded by comfortable leather armchairs and low tables perfect for a glass of wine, private and rarely used by the noisier members of the house, making it the ideal place to hide. The rooms walls were lined with filled bookcases, and an enchanter and an alchemy table were hidden away in the furthest corners of the room. From her spot by the window she turned her head at the noise of feet and looked down the hallway and watched as Aela, Farkas and Vilkas filed into the office behind Beren, all looking grim, though the twins managed a nod to acknowledge her presence, while Aela pointedly ignored her. Aela and her had only ever maintained a superficial friendship during the war, held together by Beren's force of personality and the external threat of Aldiun, and the threat of mutual destruction through revealing their true natures to the world. Aela had scorned her friendship on the ground of her vampirism and family, while Serana had thought 'The Companions' a kind of sad joke on their own history in return. The kind and pleasant behaviour Aela had extended to her at Tales and Tallows, where she had joined her and Lydia had been a unexpected surprise. She wondered if it was because Lydia had told her of her plans to leave, or if it was in earnest, an attempt at the ending of feuds and the start of new beginnings to mark the approaching Jeek's Day. She shook her head and looked out the window again, searching for a distraction from the worries and troubles of the present.

The estate was bounded by high stone wall and so the view was limited. This deep into town in the winds district it was difficult to get much of a view over the plain, unless you climbed one of the guard towers or the high walls that circled and divided the city. Up here though the air was crisp and clean, the sewers funnelling the waste of the city down into the plains district where its scents lingered in the narrow lanes and slums. Since the end of the war and their return, she had spent many of her evenings tending the little garden by hand, carefully weeding it, and occasionally planting a few little cuttings for future alchemical ingredients. Given she had reluctantly planned to spend a year here why not allow her hobby to generate a little extra pocket money?

She found Whiterun an intriguing city. The largest city in Skyrim said to have a population of 300,000 people, Jarl Balgruuf had steered a careful course trying to balance the feuding noble families and keep the peace that so attracted the farmers, merchants, and Gildergreen pilgrims which funded the very wealth that the feuding nobles and their armed gangs squandered. She knew that Beric had once had to flee the town because of it, when he had unwisely uncovered and reported a group of skooma smugglers to a corrupt town guard captain. Farengar had sent him packing off to the college with a swift horse and a small purse of septims as a reward. Beren, then on the cusp of manhood, had been placed under the protection of 'The Companions' as a servant.

Beric had once told her a story about an old man he had known as a guard, he had slipped skating on the White river as a boy, hit his head and gone to sleep only to wake up an old man. He had been presented with grand nephews and nieces, and told his parents were dead. Many days during his patrols Beric had found the old man sitting by the window, watching young boys play in the street as he spun cordage, rope and cable for coppers with arthritic hands. Beric had said that he had found the world a strange place, familiar but twisted as young boys mocked his friendship and men and women whispered it was unnatural, which had repeatedly brought the guard to his door, where Beren had often sat down and talked to the lonely old man. She could empathise with his feelings. Before she had gone to sleep every lord or king had maintained a hall of professional warriors, indiscriminately named as their housecarls, followers, companions or retainers. They had been bound together by honour- for their lord to lead them honourably, and reward them with the spoils of war and lands for peace, and in return to follow honourably in war and pay tribute to their lord. They had formed the core of her father's armies, augmented by a tribal levy of spearmen and skirmishers under their thanes, reinforced by a scattering of clever-men mages and summoner-priests.

She had first assumed Beren a mighty chieftain in the style of her father or rather a rising champion, leading by strength of arm and divine right marked by favour or token from a chosen deity, the pack of followers that had flocked to his side his court and tribal levies. All notions that the brothers had been quick to dissuade her of. They had been very clear on the subject of the tribal levies or 'private armies' as they put it. Disclaiming all involvement with them even as they flocked to their side and their protests grew weaker and quieter. Wherever he had went, and whatever he did, Beren seemed to inspire manic devotion amongst the Nords of Skyrim- it had not been unknown for even the most hardened Nord fleeing their destroyed homesteads to fall to their knees in prayer, forget their names, faint in his presence, or claim to see a dragon in the place of a man. Beren's humour and easy nature had often helped set overawed and terrified men and women at ease, wearing the skin of Dragonborn with the light confidence of a man born to it. For the simple act of dispelling their temporary embarrassment, he won their hearts. As news of his fame had spread and the infamy of the dragon attack grew, there had been a mass hysterical religious revival, and whenever he entered town a small band of the desperate, the determined or the fanatical journeyed with him, seeking revenge, redemption, protection, purpose.

Beren had first begun to attract followers the moment he had been revealed as the Dragonborn almost two years ago, and then en masse during the winter and spring of the Dawnguard campaign, when vampires attacked every night and dragons flew overhead every day. Every day wanderers had come, first by ones and twos, and then in their tens and hundreds as villages were razed to the ground one by one and the survivors, desperate and homeless, flocked to him for revenge for their shattered lives. After the Dawnguard leadership had mostly died during the storming of her home, the remnants of the Dawnguard joined the pack which now swelled from a gang of hundreds to an army in the thousands. With the discovery Aldiun's wall, many took the abandoned fort as their home, and declared themselves Dragonguard, arming themselves in a strange and unfamiliar style in a manner which had so inflamed tensions with the Altmer. When Beren had declared war against Ulfric, his letter had unleashed their fervour in a manner never before co-ordinated as he sent them to war. Now formally raised as a pair of legions counting amongst their numbers fanatics, Dragon-killers, Dawnguard remnants, zealots and even a few bandits they had performed far better than the pressed levies of her time ever had.

By comparison, to hear of 'The Companions' then she had first thought that they were Beren's household troops, his companions. In truth, 'The Companions' had disappointed her, just as the fall of her only family's household into that twisted court had- a comparison she had made once to Aela when she had been feeling particularly spiteful. Drunk, indolent, mutinous, only a quarter of them had followed Beren to war, despite claiming the name of companion and a unique position of honour, a position that they celebrated and upheld every Jeek's Day. It was not that many of them had been werewolves, in her time every chieftain or king had claimed some blessing or token of approval from an Aedra or Daedra as a demonstration of their divinely favoured right to rule, and perhaps as a gift to their companions to ensure their loyalty. Though perhaps her family had taken that logic a bit too far, she thought with a sudden shudder.

"He's doing his disappointed dad thing isn't he?"

"Oh! Durag, you made me jump." She said reproachfully, shaken from her thoughts into the present and unwilling to admit weakness, or that an orc had snuck up on her.

"Sorry?" she asked, having missed what he said.

"He's doing his disappointed dad thing again, isn't he?" She saw that Erik was lurking behind him, watching with a confused and curious look on his face. She was suddenly reminded of how Beric described him following people like 'a little lost lamb' and she felt a small pang of sympathy for him.

"I suppose so. He's good at that." Beric was 'to be fair,' she reflected. Sparing with praise and an acerbic wit, he seemed to take deep personal wounding when disappointed. The times when she had experienced Beric's quiet disappointment at how he had misplaced his trust in her were far more wounding then the times when she had braced herself for Beren's rage.

"Speaking to a herald like that isn't strong or clever. Beren swore to follow Elisif honourably, and needs to remember his place, just as the herald does his." She addressed Erik.

"and calling a herald a cu-"

"- A 'see you next tirdas' Durag. Erik doesn't need to pick up your bad habits. But yes, that doesn't help."

Erik look uncomfortable and guilty at this, and she had the distinct impression that between Lydia, Durag and Beren he was picking up a large vocabulary of new exciting words and phrases.

"I'm surprised that the Dragonborn tolerates being spoken to like that by anyone, even his brother." Erik ventured. Serana raised an eyebrow at this. Having been turned as a maid of eighteen summers, he probably felt a measure of affinity as well as jealousy at how her 'youth' hadn't prevented her joining Beren's quest. Her apparent youthfulness also meant people tended to treat her with less respect than the prematurely aged Beric or Beren were accorded, for all that they were quick to label her a magical prodigy. And both of them got called 'sir,' she thought sourly.

"Beric raised him." she said simply. "Aeta, their mother died from fever when Beren was just a few months old. Beren's father disappeared before his birth, just like Beric's had, and that left Beric alone holding his baby brother."

She paused in the story, uncertain if she should continue, but Erik was curious in spite of the distance he had previously shown, and she wanted to take the opportunity to talk about something other than work.

"That left Beric, just turned five holding his months-old little brother. His mother was a priestess in one of the little run-down temples of Kyne down in slums of the plains district, and the other priest allowed them to live there out of charity, for a little while at least. He made it clear that Beren was his responsibility. Maybe it was callousness, or maybe just experience. Most children under the age of one die, and why would this one be any different?" she asked. Erik seemed to be hanging on every word, while Durag leaned against the other side of the window, listening politely as she continued.

"Beren didn't have the money for a wet nurse, so he had to feed him himself. he told me about it once. He had a goat that he would milk, and then, holding his little brother in one arm, drip goats' milk into his mouth with the rolled-up end of a rag that he'd wrapped around a finger, sitting on that little stool you use as a seat for your writing desk. Beric helped out at the temple to earn their keep, learnt a little magic that he used to heal the sick and then got a proper job in the guard when he came of age. Until that is, he had to run for his life and abandoned him with The Companions."

It was a fairly sudden and brutal halt to the story she realised. They lapsed into silence again as Beric walked into the room, a small tumbler of neat akvavit to hand as he collapsed exhausted into one of the chairs by the fire. She turned back to the window to watch the rain, unwilling to say anything more. Beric had been forced to abandon Beren when he had been a boy of sixteen, leaving his brother, angry and alone in their care. He had returned under the cover of his younger brother's protection, to re-acquaint himself with a man of twenty who was being hailed as the Dragonborn and hero of Skyrim. Only to discover the manipulation they had wrought to secure Beren's silence when he inadvertently discovered their lycanthropy.

It was not just her that disliked and distrusted Aela or 'The Companions,' Beric had also been furious at how Aela had manipulated Beren to protect their secret cult of Hircine. After he had persuaded Beren to take the cure due to religious conviction and the dangers of discovery, he and Aela had barely been able to stand each other. That had been a small private scandal that had rocked Beren to his core, and now Beren was coming apart like wet paper before the storm of Elisif's politicking, and she knew, with sudden clarity how Beric would never abandon his brother's side again, as Beren lacked the guile and political mind necessary to achieve whatever course of action he would choose this night. In a moment her heart fell as she realised that if she ever wanted to go to the college, she would have to do so alone, without the man that had been her near constant companion since waking from her 4,000-year long slumber.

"Reminds you of Windhelm doesn't it?"

"Sorry?" she said, shaken from her reprieve for a second time, and now beginning to feel a little put out by it. Couldn't Durag see she wanted to be left in peace?

"Sorry, I said, it reminds you of Windhelm doesn't it, the rain?" he clarified, nodding at the curtains of water that now lashed down onto her little garden, shaking her carefully tended flower and stalks mercilessly. He looked a little concerned at her now, and she felt embarrassed at the close attention he was giving her. She closed the window, and listened to the tapping of the water on the panes. It did, come to think of it, so like the drum of rain on a taught tent roof.

"A little bit." She admitted. She looked at Erik, and decided that she could at least be pleasant to the boy now that he was no longer actively avoiding her.

"You remember when Beric talked about Miraak using the Thu'um to separate the island of Solstheim from the rest of Skyrim at Tales and Tallows, or the shout during the assault on the bandit camp?" she asked Erik, who nodded nervously. She smoothed her dress and sat down on the windowsill, attempting to look less threatening. She found it infuriating the limited perspective many of these modern Nords had for those who practiced the arcane arts.

"The Stormcloaks had managed to stalemate every attack on Windhelm. Imagine it, five legions camped in the mud for almost two months, going nowhere as the summer crept away and winter came closer. They were raiding the lines every night, and had giants and mammoth riding nomads inside and outside the city trying to break the siege. Beric and I had just marched from Riften with the Breton legion- that's what they called the army from High Rock."

She clarified in response to his confused look at the last part of story. Despite looking at her like a mouse looks at a cat he was getting drawn in despite himself and she continued.

"The evening we arrived up the south road to Riften we had a council of war in an old leaky barn, the only place big enough for us all. All of us, General Tullius, Legate Rikke, the three Breton princes, Lydia, Durag. Even Rihad was there, hanging off the rafters at the back with the tribunes and praefects, all with ideas about how to breach the walls. The Imperials wanted to build some siege towers to clear the walls, along with an inside and an outside facing pair of walls to prevent any break outs or break ins by the Stormcloaks. The Bretons had a couple of siege engineers, talking away about their 'tree-bucket' things, they seemed quite enamoured about them, 'a truly superior siege weapon' they claimed. Beren wanted to use his shouts or even call his Dragons down on the city. I seem to recall Durag wanted to dig some holes and then try to blow himself up with some Dwemer oils and powders."

Durag flushed at this and rubbed the back of his bald head, shaven clean after enduring too much teasing from often sporting only half a headful of hair. Explosions and fire seemed to be an occupational hazard for those with a dwemer obsession, and even now it wasn't uncommon for him to be missing an eyebrow or two for a few weeks here or there. He stood up and went to sit by the fireplace with Beric, talking at length in a low and insistent by voice, but only receiving clipped responses in return. She turned her gaze back to Erik.

"In the end, Beren proposed he use a shout that commanded the storms themselves, while Tullius proposed two synchronised attacks and a few feints at different points of the walls. Lighting strikes made a breach for Beren's assault, and provided quite a bit of a distraction to allow the other attacks to succeed. But with lighting came the winds and the rains, and then the floods, so we spent the next month or so wet to the bone…I didn't know the skies could hold so much water actually. Most of the troops had mixed feeling about that."

She was reluctant to say any more on the subject. It had been…three months ago? Four? She tried to frame the events in her head. She had kept a journal of the war, but the rain had gotten to it, and then the mould set in and she had thrown it away, which made her memory hazy. She was also trying to avoid being unnecessarily vulgar or graphic, trying to forget the stench of that siege. It was said that Windhelm had held 200,000 souls before the siege, she doubted that there was even a fourth of that now. The disease, the mass dysentery that had stalked the city and camps and the bloated abandoned corpses rotting in the fields and floating in flooded streets had eclipsed the unpleasant scents of the Soul Cairn or the Undercroft from her memory. But now it was all flooding back, and it wasn't just the scents, but the sights and sounds of the siege. The fires and the floods, and the breakdown of discipline during the fall had been seared into her memories and even now stalked her dreams. She suddenly felt ill, and in no mood to talk further.

"Beren and I were with one of the other attacks that day, with the Bretons. You should ask Lydia if you want to hear more about Beren's breach, with his housecarls, the Legions and their Dragon Banners."

"Tell me about yours." Erik asked without a pause, breathless with excitement to head the story from someone who had been there. She sighed, and resigned herself. She might as well try to be polite, Beren had already tried to shock him and she didn't feel any particular desire to make a similar effort. Make it boring, she told herself, and hopefully he'll let it be.

"We attacked across Windhelm Bridge- the largest bridge in Skyrim, divided by four great gatehouses all in a line. The Trebuchets knocked down the towers and a ram breached the gates of the first one. We attacked, fought some Giants and even a couple Mammoths, or what was left of them after a few months of disease and war. Beric would get promoted to acting Praefect for the leadership and bravery he displayed that day, leading the Breton knights, men-at-arms and their crossbowmen and billmen to kill the rest. I reanimated a couple of the giant corpses; they breached the other gates and that was that." She shook her head, unwilling to take about it more. Her unthinking mention of necromancy seemed to have dissuaded Erik from asking further, and he looked nervous and uncomfortable. She searched her mind for a way to allow him to leave politely, now that they were both tired of the conversation.

"have you written to your father yet?" she asked, changing the subject.

"Uhh…. no." he looked guilty at this omission.

"You should, he's probably worried about you. I've got a letter for my mother in Solitude that I'm going to give to the porter tomorrow morning. If you hurry, you should be able to send yours as well, it will arrive sooner with mine."

"Oh, thanks Serana!"

With that Erik hurried away. She looked around the room, and was relieved to see the Durag had also stomped out at some point during their conversation. Beric glanced up from staring into the fireplace, and was relieved to see that they were alone. He reached over for the bottle of Akvavit and an extra tumbler which he filled it with a dram of two fingers, quietly stood and walked over to her and handed the strong drink to her with a wry smile. She returned the smile, and they clinked glasses quietly, before he left her alone by the window. She took a small sip of the heady liquor, and rested her head against the cool wall, enjoying the strong taste and the fortifying effects it would bring for the little production of evening dinner that would soon come.

* * *

It was dinner time in the main hall with the household all gathered down both sides of the central table. A couple of old wine bottles held the stubs of candles for light, while the open central hearth fire threw out warmth and heat that prickled uncomfortably on her back. Aela was busy complaining about managing Jeek's day, comparing the business of managing the horde of curious children, hungry beggars, cooks and jesters that had crowded Jorrvaskr's enclosure and pressed against her gates to preparation before battle. Serana was busy stabbing a rare steak with a knife to feign a mortal's hunger. The pale pink juices it leaked onto the plate mocked her palate and set her thirst itching for a vintage of rich red that pricked her parched throat, while the potato and other vegetables might as well be mud for all that they appetized her. She gave the meat another vicious stab before popping it into her mouth and biting into the piece with her sharp fangs, chewing methodically to prolong the display, delaying as long as possible the resumption of this farce. Still, it helped allay suspicious and she was keen not to end up like Sybille, tied to a post and tarred for the torch in some market square. She could still drink though, and she covered her sly movement to drop a piece of meat to the guard dogs wagging their tails under the table with a slip of a modest red, allowing it to wash the taste away as it swished over her sharp teeth.

She could eat mortal food if she needed to, but since receiving the Gift her palate had changed and her body was unable to digest any vegetables or cooked meats. The steak would sit like a stone in her belly, leaving her feeling bloated and slightly sickly if not outright ill, depending on how much she was required to eat before she could leave the table. It was blood not steak she desired now, and she longed to slake her thirst. She would feed tonight, she decided, eyeing the servants out of the corner of her eye warily as she stabbed the steak with her fork, for it had been a week or so since her last feeding, and she needed the calm and clear-headedness it brought.

She counted herself lucky that this performance was far easier to maintains as a pure-blooded Volkihar. Like many vampires, her kind maintained a basic illusion spell almost subconsciously, deceiving her prey into overlooking her fangs, while she had often been told that she had intelligent or piercing green eyes, and complemented for the paleness of her skin, a sign of wealth and nobility, though vampires could often see through it and identify each other with a careful look. As long as she maintained a masquerade of mortal life, then they would allow themselves to be deceived. Only Beren had seen through it right away, claiming that the eyes of her bloodline glowed an orange and that he could see the points of her fangs prickling the edges of her mouth. It was not always so easy for the Volkihar to hide. She, like the court her father and mother had sired or stood as grandsires to did not become overly drawn or bestial like the thin-blooded or the poorly turned. As a Volkihar's hunger grew their lord and human forms merged into a horrifying muddle. Their faces twisted bat-like, their finger bones and nails fused into claws springing from still human hands, their wings withering away and the stench of the grave and decay clung to them, changes which slowly became permanent. For others, regular feeding kept these changes at bay, but for those who couldn't they were forced into a marginal immortal life of hiding. She looked at the piece of steak on her fork.

"Beren?" she asked, putting the fork down.

"Yes Serana?" He looked up from chatting with Aela.

"What was The Companion business about?"

"Companion business." Aela grunted.

"Aela, it's the talk of the town." Beren sighed her lightly with an exhausted voice, before turning to her.

"Thorald Grey-Mane surrendered at the Battle of Blizzard's Rest, and took my blessing in return for swearing not to bear arms and returned home. Today he was involved in some sort of fight in the Plains meat market with Idolaf Battle-Born, which left them both dead. Vignar claims that it was an honourable Duel between Idolaf and Thorald, and that Jon intervened when Idolaf was killed and murdered Thorald in revenge. Olfrid claims that Thorald stabbed Idolaf in the back while Jon was trying to break up their fight, and that Jon revenged the murder." Aela looked unimpressed beside Beren, who pretended not to see it.

"What do you think we should do about Jon?"

"Do we have any witnesses?"

"Lady Isabella did, she's taking the Battle-Born side. Problem is although she may have restored the Gilder-green no-one trusts a 'devious Breton' from 'sorcerous High Rock.' Otherwise none I would trust. All have been paid off one way or another by the clans. Half claim it was an honourable duel that Jon interfered in, the others that Thorald disturbed the peace and Jon killed him by accident."

"Where is Jon?"

"Held safely in the Gaol Beneath Dragonsreach."

"What are the families demanding?"

"The Battle-Borns maintain Jon's innocence, The Grey-Manes that Jon should be executed."

"I'm sorry Beren, but why is this your problem?" she asked bluntly, completely lost and unimpressed at the marginal importance of the issue at a time like this, as Beric nodded in agreement with her. There was a Jarl, guards, professional jurists and law-speakers to deal with issues like this, and Beren already had enough on his plate to deal with, like his marriage, and Skyrim, not to mention a thousand, thousand other pressing issues where hundreds of lives sat in the balance.

"Because, Serana, Vignar has placed it before the Harbinger for judgement on Jeek's day." Aela said, managing to turn her name into an insult before continuing her little lecture. "it is his right to do so, and Jeek's day is the traditional day of reckoning blood-feuds before the feasting and festivities, and more importantly, winter sets in and locks them all together."

Serana was unimpressed by this. It was typical of Aela to be focused on such a small issue. She often repeated her little mantra to herself 'eyes on the prey, not the horizon,' which left her blind to the wider issues of the world. Aela had spent all morning practicing swordplay and archery, while she had completely failed to notice or comment on their use of the room, or show any interest in their day's work whatsoever, though she had been quick to play guard. She had always been quick to dismiss debate as 'sitting about on your haunches' and for that reason she often showed little interest and rarely showed up to war councils or joined them in the office or library. She had deliberately sat out the Windhelm war council entirely, opting to sleep in her tent, only asking to be woken once a decision had been made.

"The 'duel' took place in Meatmarket. A proper duel should have been fought after formal notice was given, outside the city limits and with seconds and an observer present. Thorald also swore not to bear weapons on his honour, and should have requested to be released from his oath before the duel was fought." Beren, ever the guardsman at heart put in, taking a small sip of ale before continuing.

"Charge Idolaf and Thorald in death with an illegal duel, which would settle the issue of the legality or honour of Jon's intervention. They're both dead and equally to blame so no-one comes off the worse. Thorald's estate will pay compensation to you for breaking his oath. Then place a verdict of manslaughter in self-defence for Thorald's killing, with Jon paying the appropriate wergild. That would been seen as both merciful and just, with both sides punished equally."

He delivered this with a bored air to no-one in particular, and it was she reflected, the legally correct answer. His expression however suggested that he was surprised it had taken so long for someone to suggest it as a solution. She couldn't help but feel however that what had worked in the slums and shambles of the plains would not be appreciated by the greater families of the hold. Jon's continued presence would likely inflame tensions and lead to another 'duel,' likely to remove Jon permanently and in turn provoke to further retaliation.

"Send him into exile, someone's lying, and we'll get to the truth of it sooner or later. It will be harsh enough to the Grey-Manes, and merciful enough for the Battle-Borns. In three or five years he can come back from whatever hold or province he flees to."

"The Grey-Manes and Battle-Born would see that as an admission of guilt on Jon's part. The Battle-Borns would reject it, and the Grey-Manes would press for Jon's execution. Both their houses have veterans packed around them." Aela put in

"Then maybe those Grey-Mane 'veterans' should remember who it was they swore an oath to." Serana snapped back.

"Can the guard take back the streets if there's a fight Beric?" Beren asked

"No." he shook his head.

"…Do you maybe want to expand on that?" Came Beren's exasperated reply.

"The Guards are going to be siding with the Battle-Borns on this, and they believe you stand with them as well. They see those Stormcloak turn cloaks as their enemies from the Battles of Whiterun and Meadery Bridge. They'll attack the Grey-Mane knifemen if they get the chance, and change their patrol route protect the Battle-Borns, but mostly they'll just be happy to see the Grey-Manes driven from the city."

"The Guards should be ordered to intervene, disarm both of those mobs." Erik put in besides Lydia, Beric took it with a shrug.

"Well Erik you're not wrong, but when a man's on six copper pennies a day watching a couple of wealthy noblemen run themselves through is just free entertainment. They'll keep the crowds back, pick up the pieces and move people along. They're not going to risk making an enemy of one clan or another."

"But didn't you reveal some Skooma smugglers?" Erik pressed, and there was a sharp intake of breath at this.

"Yes, and what did that get me but death threats and assassins at my back? I don't regret it, but the guard will see that as an example of what happens when you meddle. They aren't what they once were, they don't have the stomach for this." Beric responded graciously, and Lydia gave a sharp look.

"Besides, the nobles clans would resist the guard interfering in what they see as a private affair of honour. The Grey-Mane's believe rightly that they won't get a fair hearing, and by handing it over to The Companions make it a question of honour rather than law, and Vignar and Eorlund has more weight there that pleading before the Jarl's throne."

Serana could see now why they had decided to get The Companions involved, and the point of using Jeek's day. Traditionally the morning and afternoon was taken up with clans and families settling their feuds through arbitration, often with an emphasis upon forgiveness. It was an important such business was carried out before winter bit properly and the feuding parties were all locked together. There was also the ceremonial and near religious aspects of arbitration and renewal. Jeek-of-the-River had founded the city of Whiterun on this day, it was claimed, and had organised a similar public arbitration before feasting the parties together as a symbol of forgiveness. In two days' time Beren would sit in judgement before all of Whiterun and decide the fates of a number of crimes, greater or less, before feasting friends and former enemies alike as a gesture of goodwill and the renewal of the city of Whiterun. She had been handling the costs of those entertainments for the past few weeks, and had been quietly impressed by the scale of the entertainments organised, and she hoped it was enough to get the clans to forget their squabbles for a few months of winter.

She looked around the hall, and remembered the feast that they had held here before the massed Imperial army had advanced to Windhelm, before the siege and Riften and the battles. Beric and her had found a couple of bottles of wine and private corner from which to watch to proceedings, with all forty seats at the table filled. Rihad had been there, standing on the table and playing an energetic Redguard romance on a lyre with marked skill and enthusiasm. Argis, Rayya, Lydia, Jordis, Valdimar, all present, healthy, laughing and stamping their tankards to the tune. Beren had been on fine form that night, surrounded by Legion officers, Breton nobility and Nordic warriors he had matched them drink for drink and laugh for laugh. She remembered vividly how at one point he had bent double, snorting mead from his nose after a joke Rihad told, before launching a bread roll at him, and the massed food fight which had followed.

She watched Beren closely now, the conversation had moved on, and he was busy teasing Erik and Lydia, laughing and joking with his friends and family gathered close around him. he smiled broadly, showing his teeth, and crows feet hugged his eyes, but somehow the smile never reached them, nor did he speak to Aela who sat beside him. It didn't seem that he had told her, nor was he giving Aela any special attention or show of affection, and she found that troubling. She realised that Beric was right about Beren, he wasn't well if he was planning on simply hiding this. It was not lost on her that at no point that evening had Beren had forsworn rejecting the offer out of hand, or had been moved to defend the damage done to the honour of his wife, or remind his sworn lady of the dishonour and the insult she had shown with her request. if it came to marriage, coup or war and the Ruby Throne she knew that Beric would recommend a cautious and considered approach, and that Beren would prevaricate, and equivocate until he claimed he had no other option but to act as he did. She was all too familiar with the excuses and lies that men and women tell themselves to justify the pursuit of power at the expense of love and family. That sudden realisation chilled her to the bone.

Could she follow a man who abandoned his honour, or on a path she did not believe in? What of her own honour? Four thousand years or more had passed in the blink of an eye, and the court and father she had returned to had been altered beyond all recognition, such that there was no love or loyalty owed. She had taken arms against her family and her kind, against the man who had destroyed her family and willing planned to provoke a war with all of Tamriel, would she now be party to such actions? She had helped Beren achieve his real destiny, seeing it a personal quest for her own redemption. She had helped coach Beren's declaration of war, where he magnanimously promised to pardon his enemies in defeat for taking up arms, a declaration which sat uneasily with their allies in the legions. A declaration of war not against the Stormcloak cause with which he privately sympathised, but as a personal affair of honour against Ulfric Stormcloak a man who had twice sworn an oath to him, only to break it. She had been there to see the ten thousand pardoned, surrounded and cowed, and felt such pride that she had given them their lives when her family had taken so many others.

It was that damned moot which ruined everything. Why continue with the tradition of the Moot if you fail to respect its spirit? In her time Harald had conquered Skyrim, and created it to select the strongest and most worthy for his successor. When the Moot had come, she had urged Beren to put his name forwards to unite Skyrim into one under his own leadership. He had refused, citing convention, honour, tradition. Finally, his duty to Elisif, and she discovered that Elisif had moved first to secure his loyalties for herself. He had been guided by a perplexing and in her eyes contradictory sense of compulsions that she did not understand. He was the stronger party, Elisif the weaker, and therefore she should make way for him. Sometimes the past and the present paradoxically felt at once closer and further away. Today Ulfric had understood that principle just as in her time neither Harald, his heirs or forebears would never tolerate a weak monarch, yet Beren would never dream of challenging Elisif to an honour-duel for the prize he now half seemed to covet. Now, what he could have taken he was being offered at the price of his family.

Elisif's seduction was all the more treacherous for the false gift is offered. If Durag was right and this was about Tamriel, then that was not in her gift to give, but his to take. She had helped him pursue the prophecy of The Last Dragonborn out of a sense of redemption for past sins, and she had urged him to put himself forward at the moot and he refused. She was certain Beren would have rejected it before Durag's suggestion that the hand of fate once again lay upon him. Durag was wrong in her opinion, the prophecies contained in the elder scrolls were fated events, just because previous Dragonborn had conquered and ruled the world doesn't require you to assume that the example of history possesses the weight of destiny, to do so seemed like hubris, almost blasphemous, and was to invite the judgement of the Gods.

She had already seen her own family ripped apart for power in the obsessive pursuit of a vague prophecy, she would not watch as it happened again, she would refuse to be party to it altogether. She would not watch a family of she loved and who loved each other destroy each other, or be party to an unprovoked civil war. With that realisation her plan crystallised in her mind. Either she would get him to reject the offer, or she would take her leave. She was brought back to the present by the scraping of chairs on the flagstone floor. It was time to Beren to hear their plans.

* * *

They sat quietly in their old seats as Beren shut the door behind them. The seals flashed once more, and then Beren took his seat with a tired groan.

"Swear your oaths."

They swore again.

"Durag, what do you think should we do." There was a scrape of a chair as he stood, and bowed low for a moment before starting.

"I think you should accept it." Shocked breaths were taken at the simple boldness of this statement, but not in surprise. "You have fought a war when it was impossible to maintain the lie of peace any longer. Men and women left their homes and lives behind, marched to battle, died for that victory in that war. Many more still live crippled, bearing wounds which will never heal, scars which will never fade, memories of those they lost that will never die. All with families-partners, parents, children- now broken. We must honour the memory of their sacrifice, and be pragmatic in securing peace. All of Skyrim stands like Whiterun, former Stormcloaks returned home, and Imperial veterans rubbing shoulders. It will be for you to set an example, to place the political over the personal, and to make a sacrifice for peace. If we can prevent future strife and struggle through such a simple act as a divorce and a marriage, then by the cost of one family we can save thousands, while if we prize our own, it will destroy thousands. That simple arithmetic demands we act, morality demands we act."

"Thank you Durag for your…. candour." Beren said through gritted teeth which as much dignity as he could manage, Durag sat down again quickly.

"Serana"

"No Nord should divorce their wife to gain a better one. Reject it. It is a slight to your honour, and to the honour of your family. If her letter was made public then Elisif would be ashamed and her good will amongst the common people would disappear. Fear of losing what few friends she has in her kingdom will keep her quiet, and her advisors will find her another suitable partner, or the Potentate will." they looked at her as if they expected more, Beren looked disappointed that this was all she could come up with. She shook her head and crossed her arms. There was nothing more to say.

"Beric?"

"I don't think a rash rejection will have the effect that Serana wants, but I agree with the objective. We should be tactical about this. Elisif is reliant upon her advisors, and has been known to change her mind. I think that we should play for time, allow her advisors to play on her, and use the coming winter and its long months to force her to reconsider."

Beren looked interested in this proposal, and motioned Beric to continue, and he seemed to warm to the matter.

"First, we do nothing for a week or so, then send a reply with the herald. I think first we should play up the shock of its arrival, and the manner in which it was delivered. Who is this herald? This 'Marquis Reynold Sir Whatever?' I've never heard of him, this letter he brought- it's unbelievable- we'll use that- we'll want confirmation from the court for that too. It will probably take him two or three weeks to get to Solitude, by then it will be almost Frostfall. An early winter would close the roads, or if he returns prevent our reply leaving until Sun's Dawn or First Seed."

Neither Serana or Durag felt or looked convinced at this proposal, but Beren looked interested.

"Serana, Durag, do you have anything else you want to say?"

She did, but it could wait, so she shook her head. She did not believe that Elisif would simply change her mind or forget about Beren, and felt that Beric's caution would merely strengthen Elisif's position through giving her the initiative, and allowing whatever second strike she had planned to fall. If she felt that Beren was a threat to her then she would force a public confrontation while the military governor and his armies remained to back her claim. Durag made a small noise to clear his throat and tentatively began.

"…. I do not think that we should be so quick as to scorn a marriage with the High Queen and-." Beren abruptly cut him off.

"Duly noted Durag."

There was silence again for a moment. Beren turned their back on them again, and hands behind his head he stood still for a moment, before talking in a low voice.

"Tiber Septim of Atmora only became emperor after his High King was murdered, his throat had been cut and he lost the ability to shout. In his moment of greatest power and weakness, his greatest weapon was lost to him. From then on, he ruled by a whisper, dependent upon others to execute what he could not, just as Elisif rules now by letters and the murmured word, bargaining for the strength of another. Such power is always vulnerable to usurpation by an ambitious and powerful follower."

He turned back to them, and spoke in earnest.

"Whether it is lust for power, or fear of me which has made her choose this path, I do not know. What I do know is that we have clear and simple choice. If it is fear, we will reassure Elisif, and if it is power, then we will deter her, for I have dragons and she does not. But for now, I think that we do not know enough to make a smart judgement on course of action to take. If I were to react angrily, then so will she, and the war will be for nothing, and that would betray our lost friends who no longer stand here today. It is time that we need most- to gather information, and weaken her position and resolve. Time to allow the seeds of doubt to grow, and time to allow her advisors to work upon her."

"Serana and Beric, you will write an appropriate response at the end of the week. A letter of clarification and confirmation of the herald and the proposal would be a smart first step. We shall keep this secret, and hope she can stand down with dignity. Such a gesture would be…magnanimous, as Durag would say. We will also write to Delphine, we may yet have need of her Blades in Sky Haven Temple, and how many will return from the legions."

This was greeted with absolute silence.

"Any questions?"

They all shook their heads

"No? Then we're done for today."

They all stood, exhausted and shaken, but in some way relieved that a decision had been made. She however felt the need to discuss one last topic before the day was brought to an end.

"Beren can I see you in the Office please? Beric you too."

"Uh, yeah sure Serana." Both looked exhausted, curious and a little alarmed.

They left and entered the library. Beric collapsed into his chair, while Beren nearly dislodging a pile of papers as he sat down on his desk and picked up Ulfric's skull.

"What I have to say is going to be difficult for you to hear, but I want to ask you to please not interrupt me until I've finished." She looked at the two brothers who nodded their assent. She took a deep breath, and was surprised at how she was still felt nerves in such a human way.

"I have often spoken of what I wanted to do after the war, and this letter has made me realise, to re-assess what I want to do over the next few years, latching onto thoughts and feeling that I have been mulling over for weeks now. I'm sorry, Beren, but unfortunately I'm no longer able to serve and follow you as I have…I will interview for a replacement to handle the books, and a suitable spellsword to accompany you on your future endeavours, but I feel that it is time for me to begin my preparations to leave. I just…I can't handle the politics of all this, and I want to understand this world better." She swallowed nervously and felt tears gather at the corner of her eyes, feeling the betrayal of it cut her to the bone.

"Oh…. Serana don't do this please don't go." She looked at Beric, devastated behind his neatly organised desk, and her heart dropped to see the emotions plainly written across his face. Beren signed and dropped his head, carefully placing Ulfric's skull back on its pile.

"Where will you go?"

"To the college, as I always said I would. I mean to leave in the next month if possible, or in the spring at the latest."

"You would leave us now? After everything that has happened? With the future still uncertain?" he asked, a sliver of menace hidden amidst the tired disappointment.

"I served as friendship, honour and my conscience told me too. I took down the Volkihar, fought Miraak and saw you break two dragons with your voice. When you asked for another year, I gave it as a gift. I'm not breaking any oaths, because I swore none. I know how you look on that sort of behaviour." She nodded at Ulfric's skull, and Beren seemed to look at it in surprise.

"Twice an Oath-breaker…how did that work out for you hmm?" he nodded to the skull, half talking to them. He stood, and she looked up at him, towering a full head of height above her. This close she could see the faint strands of silver that now ran like slender veins amongst his straw blonde mane of hair. He extended his hand. Hesitating for a second, she took it, and suddenly his other came up and enfolded it, trapping her slender fingers in his massive paws and iron grip. She could feel the scars on his hands, the callouses on his fingers, and the hot blood pumping under his skin.

"Serana. You have served beyond what I could expect, and give more than anyone else has. You are free to go will all honour and my blessing."

He said formally, and release her hands, turning his back on her to watch the rain pelting the windows, shoulders rising and falling with deep breaths. She recognised the signs of his temper well, and took the opportunity to retreat before it boiled over. She turned to Beric, who was careful not to look at her. Instead he just he sat quietly, a picture of utter defeat and betrayal. Serana fled the room, leaving them in them alone as she closed the door behind her. She looked down at her trembling hands, red from Beren grip. Feeling guilty, tired and thirsty, she went to the south wing servants' quarters to find a drink, hoping to new blood and the warmth of youth would wash some of the stress away before night and brought its long hours of confinement to her room, and sleep its horrific nightmares of her past and future.

* * *

**A****uthor's Note**

Hello again everyone, thanks for reading this chapter, I've also taken this month to make a number of minor fixes and edits to earlier chapters, and those will be updated in an improved format within the next week. This was a very long chapter, running in at about 15,000 words which ultimately felt necessary as there was no natural break, and I needed to give some immediate resolution otherwise there would be two chapters, one of which would meander without some sort of conclusion. This is the first time I've ever written a female character so please let me know what you liked and what you feel doesn't.

There was a lot of politics in this chapter, and while they are fairly well informed, they don't have the full picture. They also very strongly affected by their personalities, interpretations, values and parent cultures. To use a bit of international relations theory terminology, Elisif's power at this time is mostly defined as soft power, and hinges on her ability to persuade others via organisations like the Bard's College, because she was only given the scraps when everyone else was busy appropriating all the hard power elements to fight a war. Serana and Durag both have very strong opinions on the relative merits and limitation of this approach, while Beric sees its value but prefers to play his cards close to his chest when out of his depth.

Serana's past in a cult and the emotional and mental abuse and rape she incurred as a consequence of her parents' actions is something that will affect her relationships and motivations, which is why this story is marked as mature. The other problem of Serana's age and time of entombment was a difficult thing to determine, despite searching a number of pages for information. In the end it seemed like almost every single piece of evidence contradicted another. In the end it was clear that there were two possibilities- during the interregnum of ESO's timeline and an early first era date. I ultimately decided upon the latter option as the more interesting and likely. Also, I don't play ESO.

More importantly, we have very little information on the grist of storytelling- the politics, social structures, religions and cultures of her time other than the most superficial. Consequently, I'm going to use a combination of the known information (racism, status of mages, elves etc) and add a few real-world elements from bronze age civilisations and the reconstructed proto Indo-European culture. The armies and cultures that Serana describes take a few leaves from Mycenaeans Greece and their contemporaries. Harkon as a hereditary warlord in the mould of Agamemnon accompanied by his companions, heroes in the vein of Achilles, massed tribal levies and princesses enacting _Heiros Gamos_ with chthonic deities is a fascinatingly alien culture to play around with. Although the major historical difference is that they have priests which can shoot fireballs at the unbelievers.

**Replies to Reviews**

Hey Greywolf93, good to hear from you again and sorry for the delay in reply!

I was always interested in how a mortal would deal with being part dragon, and the struggle and strain that comes with that. However, I deliberately wanted to avoid the angst and 'not worthy' subplots, as these are very common chosen one tropes which I wanted to avoid, all of which influenced me ageing up Beren and the post-Aldiun setting where he has lived up to his destiny, and is now at a loose end. The human drama between family life and a desire for power (with the ambiguities of motivation) that comes for that is something that I found interesting and would be a useful substitute.

In the sense of the pursuit and seduction of absolute power he certainly shares elements with Dany, but significantly diverge as Dany's struggle for social reform and her aspirational nature isn't something we really see in Beren- he's much more inclined to play by the current rules of the game than to create a new one.

As you note, the fall of a stubbornly resisting cities was often a bloody affair- Badajoz, Berlin and Jerusalem are all prime examples of the break-down of discipline, war crimes and collateral damage, in addition to issues like famine, disease and the weather on the population. Windhelm's sack and how that compares and contrast with the chivalry of the LDB's actions at the Battle of Blizzard's Rest is going to be a continuous point of reference, and we are going to meet a number of characters from both events and both sides of the battle, and how they have dealt with that experience.

Hello again HermitWitch- like the new name by the way and sorry for the delay in getting back to you.

Thanks very much for the praise- Durag has been a background character previously, but he and Serana really came to the forefront in this chapter. The bits about him losing his lower leg and his hair helps showcase that while he is something of an absent-minded professor, he isn't an ivory tower academic. For him to make a point of standing up with only one leg and make his plea for peace on behalf of the dead and injured helps showcase a moral courage that informs his character, and it is probably why Beren listened to it with more respect than another would get for suggesting what Durag does.

As for Serana, I'm relieved that she works so far. Her being a fish out of water often seem to drop away too quickly when her entire world view is utterly alien- religion, politics, warfare, morality, language- all have changed completely. I've also been flicking through the Grail Knight trilogy by Bernard Cornwell, which gave me a few pointers of what not to do- there's a lot of women who seem to lose any sense of purpose the moment a protagonist walks through the door.

Unfortunately for Beric it means she's planning on leaving him to study at the CoW- though they've probably got a month or so to hopefully smooth things out before she does leave, while persuading each other to their own course of action (to leave or to stay). Ultimately, they're both independent, mature adults and while Beric feels understandably betrayed, it's not a complete shock.

Beric's advice is something of a fudge admittedly- it lacks the principles stands of Serana and Durag for a more realistic, but uncomfortable, practical solution which leave all options open for now, while they carry out some fact-finding. The plan is also informed by the still unannounced pregnancy of Aela, which informs Beric's plan to push Elisif to withdrawn her proposal but can't be discussed as Serana and Durag aren't party to that information yet.

I hope you enjoy next month- We'll get Erik back out as a character, and take a bit of a break from politics for Jeeks Day! 


	5. Chapter 5: Doom-Driven Hero

**Chapter Five: Doom Driven-Hero.**

**Erik II**

Erik waited anxiously for Lydia's verdict, trailing in her wake with a pair of broadswords cradled in his arms. She pulled a longsword down from its rack, unsheathed it with a rasp and carefully held the blade up closely before her brown eyes to the flickering lamp light. With so many weapons and pieces of armour in one place daily maintenance was required by Erik in a constant battle with the damp. A battle which following yesterday's storm had seen Erik spent much of his morning and afternoon carefully checking every blade in the armoury for rust or pitting to ensure everything was perfect for Lydia's inspection.

"Good." Lydia grunted as she sheathed the blade with a snap and returned it, before pulling its neighbour down.

"Little bit of rust here. Get that out." she said, tapping a few small flecks of pitting he had missed with her forefinger, sheathing it and placing it with the pair he was already carrying. She pulled an old Dawnguard arming sword down next and repeated the performance.

"You've done your best with this one- but do you see that flaking there?" She held it up before his eyes- the old blade had a tarnished, two-tone quality to it, like the Hamon line on the Akaviri blades he had seen.

"I found that one difficult- something's wrong with the metal- it's all tarnished, and the oil and cloth were causing the blade to flake."

"The Dawnguard used to silver-plate their sword blades during the fight against the Volkihar- a neat trick but expensive. The silver would flake on a strike that and left small flakes behind in the wounds, but then you need to silver the thing again. Don't worry about the flakes the fall off, keep the steel in good repair and we'll send it to be re-silvered it if we ever need it again." She put it back on its rack.

Moving to the next one, they quickly worked through the Beren's personal weapons- a matching set of Skyforged steel dagger, arming sword and greatsword. The steel was rippled oil, and had kept its sharp edge far better than any of the other blades had. Lydia paid far more careful attention to these weapons, still in use and likely to be called forth, than the older ones which had been set aside. These were placed back on their stand, and Beric's ebony bastard sword and mace were the next weapons checked. Both of the brothers maintained their own blades, but they were stored in the armoury with all the other weapons and Lydia was nothing if not thorough in her duties as housecarl.

"Not a bad effort overall. Get the few spots you missed out of those last two, and put that longsword grip to be rebound to the side. Leave everything that isn't critical until next week." She nodded approvingly, and left Erik, her inspection complete.

Erik released his breath as she stomped out and closed the doors behind her, and dropped the weapons with a clatter onto a nearby workbench. Exhausted, but filled with pride and relief at having passed his first big test as the Dragonborn's squire. Keen to finish while the sun was still up and before afternoon turned to early evening, he unsheathed the blade and pulled out some old rags, a bottle of vinegar and a pot of sand to begin the process of removing the small spots of rust that pitted the old steel sword.

Lydia had handed over the responsibility for maintaining all the weapons to him early on, and while his morning where filled with training and the day-to-day tasks of being a squire, his afternoons had been increasingly filled with the job of getting the weapons up to an appropriate standard, no easy task in and of itself. After two years of war, they had managed to collect nearly a hundred weapons- blunt-bladed training swords, trophies from battlefield, relics from Draugr tombs or the like as well as presents from Jarls and other nobles as gestures of respect and symbols of rank. Most them had been left behind during Tullius's campaign, a select few carried on the battlefield. When their party had returned, Lydia had turned her ire upon the servants at how the blades had been neglected in their absence. Weapons had been quietly retrieved in the afternoons while Serana and Beric practiced their swordplay, and taken out into the yard or under the covered porch to the rear of the estate. She had explained the job simply, he was to maintain the armoury, and she would carry out a random check on a handful of weapons once a week, with a full check against the itinerary within the month to ensure nothing had been stolen or was otherwise missing from its proper place.

Initially he had been intimidated by the amount of work and effort that would take, but had been surprised when the others had joined him out on the sunny little porch, oily rags to hand as they maintained their own blades and spoke of the inconsequential little business of the day, teasing each other as they had on the road and on the hunt to Half-Moon camp as they took little breaks from their daily worries. It was that which had made the task easier, and he had slowly been welcomed into their banter. Their personal weapons, had been utilitarian things excellently maintained.

It was a far call from the weapons at home that he had maintained as a page in his father's service. Thane Erikur's armoury had been more for show than war, where the ornately worked silver and gold had dripped from the hilts of blunt never-sharped blades who lacked history and any foreseeable use, which left his work unappreciated and unacknowledged, and fearing what becoming a squire in Solitude would be very similar as he served another member of the local nobility who had sat out the war. Squires had been originally a Breton institution which had spread across the Empire amongst the sons and daughter of the martially-minded nobility. His father seemed to have grasped the concept and been excited by the possibilities it offered for alliances between families, but didn't care for the work that was to be carried out by them, having lacked a military education in his youth or any military service as a man, which made a mockery of the blades he had polished and sharpened. Now, here in Whiterun, everything had a purpose, instead of polishing display weapons, counting beans and learning to recite poetry at length here it was weapons of war which were oiled and polished, arrows and bolts that were counted and he copied letter and wrote replies from the Dragonborn's signature.

He has discovered an audience amongst his peers for his efforts, the squires and pages of Whiterun, so different from his friends in Solitude. Often, they had been sent out while their masters had talked politics and the affairs of the city and their estates, left to entertain themselves. Many were his own age if not older, and they told him of the ancient and recent histories of Whiterun- the arrival of the legions marching north through the Pale Pass, or south down the Rorikstead road from Solitude. Some had been bloodied in combat, their faces arms, chest or legs marked by scars honourably earned that stood out white and red upon their skin. They had been old enough to dare to flirt with Serana, only to be sent away with a scathing put down or dismissive joke, said without spite and taken with good humour, to be received with laughter by the rest of them as they watched from across the room. All had been interested, near jealous of him as he toured the armoury to them, showing them carefully picked blades of Skyforged steel, ebony, glass and a number of other exotic materials, weapons of types and shapes that they had never seen and which far outstripped their master's weapons in their workmanship and histories.

Keen to impress, he had redoubled his efforts to maintain the blades lest one of the squires pull one down and unsheathe a sword or dagger in interest, only to reveal a rusted blade that would embarrass him and the rest of the household. Lydia had driven him hard, but with an audience of his own peers that would judge his work, he took deep pride at the way that they looked at the well-maintained blades with interest and respect. In return he had told them of history of the armoury's blades, and the rescue of Frothar Half-Moon Camp. Most off all, they had wanted to hear about the Thu'um. Many had heard the call of the Greybeard, or it's use at the Battle of Whiterun when the Stormcloaks had tried to carry the city by escalade. Many had been unconvinced of claims from during the battle that the battering rams and ladders had been smashed by the Thu'um, arguing that the green wood or numbers of men upon them had broken them apart. But none had seen it. He had. He had watched the assault go in from the edge of the treeline, and had heard the thunderclap and seen the wall fall. It had come apart like rotten wood under on the chopping block, and even at the distance he had been he had seen the ground as it had seemed to ripple like blanket tugged across the bed or an ocean wave at the power of the shout racing over it. The squires had been interested in that story, even though he had been embarrassed to admit that he had sat the battle out, though given their masters had sat out Tullius's campaign they had little to brag about.

The double doors banged open behind him, and he turned on his stool and then jumped up, but Beren waved him back down. He was wearing training clothes- a thick gambeson over a shirt and loose leggings, which he was not particularly surprised to see. He had made his name in the practice and perfection of his martial skills, and he would often spend an extra hour in the evening practicing blade and footwork before dinner as an almost meditative way to exercise away the stresses of the day, eager to escape the politics which threatened to chain him to his desk.

"Satisfied Lydia with her inspection then?" he asked pleasantly, twitching a pair of leather gloves onto his hands and pulling a wooden greatsword of a rack, giving it an experimental twirl as he allowed the lead-weighed wood to settle in his hands.

"She spotted a couple of spots of rust on two of the blades, I'm just fixing them now."

"It was probably the storm from yesterday, the rain sets the steel to sweating, especially if it's in a metal scabbard." He nodded knowledgeably.

"I'll make sure to wax the blades after I've gotten the pitting out, what should help them last better through the winter." Beren nodded in approval as he slowly moved through stance to stance, getting the muscles used to working again after his last meeting with the companions had finished.

"So, Ingun then." Beren said, and he felt his cheeks reddening. "that's a smart match these days, marrying a Black-Briar. How does it feel to be married to the second in line to the Jarl of Riften?"

"I don't really know." He said awkwardly, honestly. He had not really given it much thought. "I've not even seen her." A contract had been drawn up and an amulet of Mara sent by messenger on his behalf, and a short letter of acknowledgement came in reply. So far it all felt very business-like, like buying a prize mare.

"Beric has, she's the splitting image of her mother apparently. Tall, pale, long brunette hair. Pretty girl, though rather quiet and studious, very interested in alchemy." He said off-hand, his words accompanied by the swish of the wooden blade.

"A bit like Serana?" he asked, suddenly worried and awkward. The thought of marrying the acerbic, highly intelligent and superficially friendly woman did not appeal to him.

"Why, would you like that?" he asked, suddenly serious, turning on the spot, sword raised in oxguard stance, sighting along the blade at him.

"Umm…." he stuttered, taken aback and awkward at the blunt question, not wanting to insult Serana or question his choice of advisors.

"Is there something wrong with Serana?" he asked, a guarded, inquisitorial look on his face as he advance on Erik slowly, weapon at the ready, pace steady.

"No! nothing wrong…. just..." he didn't think himself unduly biased but felt that magic was occasionally useful but generally something best left to the other races, and that darker magics were best left alone altogether. The Gods punished those like the Dunmer who cavorted with Daedra and practiced the darker arts of necromancy, or who worked with the Undead. Could any who had seen the history of Morrowind say otherwise? Also, his father would be disappointed at such an unpromising match, marrying a woman without station, limited wealth or oath-sworn and honour-bound allies. Where the commons could marry for love, it was the responsibility of the nobility to put such selfish desires aside. He would honour his father's judgement, his family's agreement, do his duty and marry the woman despite whatever reservations he might have, and in so doing demonstrate his nobility and honour to family, his peers and the common people.

"I'm just teasing you Erik." He dropped the guard at Erik's long pause and a smile playing on his face as she shook his head gently and Erik flushed, rather embarrassed at falling for the gentle teasing.

"Are you worried because she's a bit older than you?" He asked quietly.

"There's a little bit of that I suppose…And I also I don't know anything about her. What she's like as a person." Beren thought for a moment as he moved into the centre of the room, fluidly moving from stance to stance as he slowly increased the speed of his movements.

"Did you know that Aela is older than me?" he nodded, sword and rust spots forgotten.

"When I was brought to The Companions my brother had left Whiterun for the College, and I was taken into service as a servant. I remember seeing Aela then, already a legend in The Companions and just promoted as one of the youngest members of The Circle. I was in awe of her, seeing her up close. But I felt like I didn't even exist to her. All day it was 'polish this, sharpen that, hurry there and hurry back.'…I don't suppose that sounds familiar." Beren asked with a little grin over his shoulder, and he grinned back, self-conscious and interested. "Then she asked me to spar with her, and she pushed for me to enter the trails. Once I had proven myself, we went on a few hunts, came back, got drunk together, talking away deep into the night. Before I knew it, we were inseparable, always running off together for the next hunt, the next fight, never able to sit still no matter how much we were scolded for it." The sentences were interspersed with the clatter of the training sword on the dummy, punctuated with a flurry of hits and grunts as he battered the targets.

"I heard about Aela, even in Solitude, how she hunted a man-killing giant for her entry into the circle, how she brought it down with a single arrow to the eye from a hundred paces." He said, warming to the subject.

"So, what does the lovely Ingun enjoy, besides alchemy and her books?" he asked over his shoulder

"I… I don't know.. I haven't asked." He admitted ruefully. He didn't want to think of it much to be honest. And besides, life as a squire kept him too busy to think much about the future.

"You should talk to Beric about her, he's met her, briefly. He's very well connected. Or your father, Thane Erikur. Surely he's spoken of the Black-Briars?"

"Yes! All the time actually. Dad respects Maven a lot, admires her to be honest. She made her money through trade and commerce like Dad, though the traditional Thanes and Jarls despise her for it, just like they do us. The Court liked to whisper about how she sold out her own city for a throne, but Dad says that most Jarls and Thanes are more obsessed with honour and respect than peace and good government. Says that he told them they had plenty of time to create their own solution, and shouldn't criticise others for what they're not prepared to do themselves."

Erik wasn't convinced. He had always felt closer to his aunt Bryling than his father. He had little patience for the numbers which never obeyed his sums, even as the lines of the ancient odes burned into his head without effort. Money may measure a man's value, but honour measures his character, and deep down he knew he would not be standing here if his father wasn't deeply lacking in that particular line of credit.

"What does he think of Elisif, our Queen then? Her cunning little trick with the traitor Jarls and the Moot certainly seems to fit into that mindset and seems out of character for Elisif. Was that on your father's advice?"

"I don't know." He said honestly. He remembered their execution and shivered. "I think father would have approved of the decision though. He would argue that it needed to be done, otherwise they could always remain figures around which Stormcloak plots could be rallied. Elisif sent a strong message, acting like she did. Sometimes a Queen needs to be hard to govern well, to be seen as strong in her own right, rather than relying upon others for strength." He spoke clearly, carefully, reluctant to speak publicly against the Queen. They had been traitors, and deserved a traitor's death for sure, but executing unarmed and half-blind prisoners to secure the throne and intimidate your rivals struck him as an action driven by fear and desperation rather than confidence.

"Seems an ill-omened rise to power, to execute someone else's prisoners for your own gain, especially if you claim to unite the kingdom under your rule. If Elisif had delayed until after the Moot she would have looked merciful had she ransomed them into exile like many of their family and friends in Hammerfell. Dead before the Moot at Elisif's hands they're martyrs to the cause, with families angry for revenge. Although I suppose the Stormcloaks don't lack in that category." Beren sounded bitter and aggrieved and looked like he was going to say something else on the topic, but thought better of it. Erik was surprised, but held his tongue. If the Dragonborn wanted to gainsay the Queen, then he was free to do so, but he was just a squire. Beren seemed to notice his unease, but didn't comment on it.

"The Potentate seems to also share your father's views; did you know that?" he asked.

"He does sir?" Erik asked surprised, he didn't know Beren had met the Potentate, and said as much.

"No, I've not met him. but he's a Breton, and he's got a Breton's way of doing things. Titus Mede was an Imperial General, but he fought for the throne like a Nord. Came to power as a warlord, leading a small band to seize the Ruby Throne from an unworthy pretender. I know that Amaund Motierre politicked his way to the Potentate, plotted his way to power. You can respect that I suppose, not the most honourable approach but effective, so long as the coin lasts…at least he earned his position, in his own way and with his own strength, such as it is. That's admirable..." Beren grew quiet for a while, and his exercises stopped as he dropped the training sword to his side.

"…They say the next great war has already started, that's why they picked Amaund. He's focused upon the southern borders with the Thalmor, leaves the provinces to sort out their own little problems so long as it doesn't affect the bigger strategy. They needed someone who fights like the Thalmor- spies, assassins and secret plots. They fighting in the shadows as soldiers and warriors prepare for a war that will never see the light of day."

Erik looked uneasily around the room line with readied weapons, thinking. He wasn't convinced, and neither was Beren by the sounds of it. The Thalmor and the Stormcloaks had both stolen a march upon the forces of the empire through surprise and underhand tactics, but in the end the Imperial Legion had prevailed despite their tricks and how their loyalties to the nine tested their oaths.

"Well sir, I think that the Thalmor had the advantage when they killed the blades and took the empire by surprise. The battle of Red Ring, and their attempt at fighting Hammerfell shows that men can beat the Thalmor time and again on an even footing. And next time it won't be a surprise."

Beren nodded in agreement.

"We're going to have to re-fight the great war because we were offered a peace without honour, we all know that, we can't do anything about it. But we can stop the civil war from being re-fought. The Grey-Manes and the Battle-Borns might be playing their little games of cat and mouse this past week, but tomorrow they'll put their swords away and beg for an end to it. Foolish pride, fear and self-interest called them out to fight, and they've both paid the blood-price for it. I'll offer them honour, mercy and justice, and they'll take that for free. Sure, they'll shout and scream at first, but once they've exhausted themselves making a scene, and I've cracked a few heads on both sides and cowed the rest, we'll roll out a few barrels of Black-Briar Reserve, and put this mess of the past few years behind us. The Potentate will need to learn the lessons of the civil war, see the value of the warriors and soldiers who won it. Just as Elisif will learn what sort of justice is require from Skyrim's monarch, what strength a warrior can bring."

Beren grew serious at the end, and nodded, half distracted and half angry with himself. He turned back to the chalked floor, and spent another half hour or so in quiet but increasingly violent exercise until he was dripping with sweat and the air blurred around him, vibrating with a constant swish of the stroke and thundercrack of impact. Erik worked the small spots of pitted rust out of the blades before carefully waxing the blades to protect them now that autumn storms and winter snows were beckoning on the horizon. Erik finished the job shortly after Beren left. He carefully checked over the two blades, now gleaming and absolutely rust-spot free, sheathed them and returned them to the weapons racks which ran around the room and the open central area with its chalked floor and the training dummies.

If he was luckily, he thought, checking the faint light still peeking through the small barred windows of the armoury, he could rush down to the Gildergreen inn for a quick pint and a slap-up supper with his friends. It had become habit they had formed every Fredas evening, allowing them to get away from their chores and their masters for an evening with a few friends their own age. While the city was on edge, the guard patrolled this district in force and he hadn't been explicitly told not to go out this evening, just to be mindful of tomorrow's responsibilities. He slipped out and closed the door carefully, locking them with masterfully worked key, watching in awe as the keyhole melted away once the key was withdrawn. That was a neat trick of enchanting he thought, though he would have preferred Durag's dwemer locks to have been set on the armoury door rather than Serana's magical ones. He tucked the key away and set off happily humming in search of Serana. He checked the office, and disappointed went on to search the library. He was unsurprised to find Serana and Beric sitting together with their backs to him, where they seemed to be having a quiet but heated argument beside a table covered in papers and open magical tomes.

"I can't leave Serana. I'm sorry but that's utterly impossible. You've seen how Aela thinks, and Durag..."

they both jumped when the floor creaked under him and looked up to see him spying from the doorway, both looked wounded, embarrassed and a little put-out at the intrusion.

"Armoury key." He said, embarrassed, holding it up in his hands awkwardly.

"Thanks Erik. I was just about to come searching for that actually." She said, holding her hand out for it from her chair. He rushed across the room and handed in over, and she slipping the key onto its ring with the others with clumsy fingers, swallowing uneasily. He hesitated for a moment, wishing he had caught her alone.

"I'm just heading down to the Gildergreen inn to see my friends for a bit." He started moving out of the room, eager to head off before another chore could be added to his list.

"Be back before sundown." Beric nodded from beside her. "It's Jeek's day tomorrow and we need you to have a clear head and be fresh and ready for an early start."

"Yes sir." He promised for what was beginning to feel like the hundredth time, rushing away.

* * *

Erik hurried back to the main hall and left via the north wing, heading through the trophy room and entrance hall where animal trophies and armour recovered from a dozen skirmishes and battlefield were displayed for visitors to inspect while they waited for their appointments, though by this time they had all been seen and any others had been turned away for the night. He slipped past the skull of Mirmulnir and out the large double main doors, and then waited as the porter let him through the estate's gates where even at this late hour a number of petitioners and beggars were waiting, hoping to be seen by Beren or his brother to discuss some slight, plan or scheme. There were also the usual collect of the sad, mad and desperate, who attempted to mob him with all sorts of offers shouted shamelessly in the street- sexual favours in exchange for access came from a lithe Bosmer woman, dire warnings of doom from a bowed Breton, naked save his beard which grew grey all the way to his groin, while a Nord hooded and cloaked and leaning on a staff ranted of owls by day and robins by night, alleging the behaviour of these wild birds as a prophecy from Kyne that was sure to be in the Dragonborn's favour if he could just have a minute of his time. Many came back every day, and some recognised him as the Dragonborn's squire. but a healthy diet and strict regime of daily exercise made him quick and strong enough to avoid being stopped for long, and his openly displayed arming sword, on which he casually rested a hand deterred the rest. He nodded to a pair of town guards who were trying to chivvy the die-hards along, and made his way alone the sparsely attended winding lanes that wound though stone walled estates of the Winds District before emerging onto the main road that led him towards Gildergreen square.

Here he encountered more people. The town guard was out in force, patrolling in teams of six or twelve under their file- and watch-leaders, watching with warry eyes the mobbing crowds. Whiterun was filled to bursting with people as he walked along the road. He dodged a street-seller sizzling sausages on a skillet and yelling his outrageous prices to the crowd, the smell of the fragrant but greasy meat setting his stomach to rumbling as he pushed through. Here a group of de-mobbed imperial veterans in faded threadbare red tunics dyed black and crimson played dice in the forecourt of a tavern, watched with disproval by a band of robed pilgrims to the Gildergreen, restored to bloom by Lady Isabella, the thrice-blessed. There a band of swaying, swaggering merchants made their way back home, one of them falling over after a man bumped into them. The man started as their good-natured calls turn to shout of 'stop thief!' and ran, pursued by a patrol of guards. He carefully avoided a tight band of roughs with faded blue cloaks, who were cat-called but the imperials but otherwise ignored.

Finally, he made it into the main square by the west road. The Gildergreen sapling was, in his opinion, a disappointingly small tree for all the pilgrims which attended to it, but it stood green and renewed in its guarded and fenced off island enclosure surrounded the stream which flowed down from Dragonsreach, untouched by the approach of winter in the square that formed the major crossroads of the winds district. The east road led towards the fortified citadel of Jorrvaskr, the north road past the scaffolding that formed the platform where the Jarl and important dignitaries would be entertained as the road meandered up to the keep of Dragonsreach. Finally, the south road into the road into the plains district- its markets, slums and the spittals. The Gildergreen inn, three stories tall and richly decorated with wood carvings that framed the leaded windows and lines of the building and stood on the southern side of the square, where a pair of hired guards stood by the door to ensure that the inn's clientele were not disturbed by the less well-heeled. They nodded in familiarity to Erik as he approached and pushed the door open for him. Though their pleasant and relaxed expressions faded fast and he looked over his shoulder. Behind him a band of four or five Stormcloaks were making the way through the crowd. Their jewellery and clothing were of good quality, though it was their faded blue cloaks which made the most deliberate statement. The crowds parted around them as they walked with an easy swagger towards the inn, and ignored the provocation of the onlookers with haughty distain. Though they were unarmed, their hands were heavy with a warrior ring on nearly every finger and their hair drawn into warrior braids.

"Try the next one lads." The right-side inn guard said with a studiedly casual air, folding his muscled arms loosely across his broad chest. Erik decided to find somewhere else to be and scurried inside.

The inside of the inn was warm, well-lit and lively. A female Breton with shoulder length red hair framing her heart shaped face sat in the corner, playing a quiet tune on the lute that struggled to be heard over the easy and happy chatter of the richer visitors and pilgrims to the city. They sat easily at the tables that filled the floor while well-dressed servant carried goblets, heaped platers and deep bowls in a brisk trade to the hungry patrons as they entered via the kitchen door to the left, while the walls of either side of the inn were lined with little walled off booths which hid the tables away and made for an intimate setting. At the far end stood the bar, where several off duty imperial legion and watch officers chatted easily with their civilian partners and friends, enjoying the good quality wine that the Gildergreen inn was famous for.

"Erik!" he heard the call and saw Absolard waving him over, and smiled and waved back in acknowledgement, ducking and dodging past the servants and the patrons. Their little booth was crowded with a dozen or so young men and women. They were squires of the noblest visitors' families of Whiterun ranging in age from thirteen to eighteen, though they were given a wide berth as their immature teenage antics resulted in a relish for language and ready violence which most of the other patrons found rather tiring. They were all crowded together around a table on which sat a couple of pitchers of ale were surrounded by tankards, and Erik was again reminded of his promise. Only one pint. Or many two, but no more than that, he resolved as the other squires made room for him as he pushed into the booth and sat on the end of the bench.

"No Serana?" Bjald, a boorish eighteen-year-old Nord asked through a face pitted by fading acne scars.

"She was busy with Beric- didn't think it right to ask." In truth, he had completely forgotten after Beren's little chat and the embarrassment of being caught accidentally eavesdropping.

"That's disappointing. She should have joined us, have a bit of fun people more her age. Beric looks like he's what, fucking twice her age?"

"Amazing what killing dragons does to you." He said lightly, as he waved at a barmaid for an extra tankard and a fresh pitcher of ale.

"Serana's killed dragon's too, she looks untouched." Absolard put in, a lanky red haired and freckled Breton now in his third year of service to Lady Isabella, as he refilled his tankard from a pitcher, spilling a little onto the polished oak table.

"Alchemist ain't she, most of them eat their own secret herbs and drink their own little secret brews. Plus, she's a proper little warlock from what I hear. Probably uses magic to keep the grey hair and wrinkles at bay." Bjald made his point with a sloshing tankard of ale, and satisfied took a hearty swing from his tankard.

"Maybe she just likes older men." Erik shrugged, tracing circles in the spilled ale.

"Yeah, a whole six years older, huge fucking age gap that is." Absolard commented over his pint.

"Don't know why you're chasing Serana, plenty of other less creepy women around." He thought of the necromancy she had mentioned and suppressed a shudder. Anyone who consorted with those powers and with such skill was best avoided. He was however unsurprised at his attempt to woo Serana. Besides her looks and skills success would mean unparalleled access to the Dragonborn, and her wealth was rumoured to be respectable enough for the lesser nobility to consider sufficient for a suitable match.

"That's cause you're properly posh aren't you, nice arranged marriage that your Da fixed up. The rest of us aren't going to marry a Black-Briar. Courtship is quick, life is short, so act fast and get your end away while you can." He shrugged, though there was a little bite to his words now.

"yeah, you're right. It is nice." Erik snapped back, then instantly regretted it. "Least you get to see your bride before you marry her." Absolard looked up at this.

"Really? Wow."

"yep." He shrugged. The barmaid appeared with a pitcher and tankard and mopped up the spilled ale, casting him a dirty look at the mess he was making. He blushed and whispered "Sorry."

"What if she's fuck ugly?" Bjald needled him maliciously.

"Then she'll still be better looking than yours." He said sarcastically, pointing at Bjald with his new pint, wishing the squire took a little less after Thane Nazeem. Erik, tired of a pointless argument turned back to his friend

"What's the good Lady Isabella up to these days Abby?" he asked, and Absolard flicked his eyes around before dropping his voice.

"Prayer and contemplation mostly. Since returning to Whiterun she spends most of her time in the grand temple of Kynareth or before the Gildergreen sapling she planted, when she's not on charity visits to the Plains. The priests are trying to be gracious but she's got a Breton's sense of clothing and suspect many of the 'pilgrims' have newly discovered their faith. There's more than a few reasons why they want to see her on her knees."

Erik nodded in agreement, having met the woman he had been impressed and interested by the good lady knight on one of her brief visits to Kyne's End estate. Her cheerful tanned face had been paired with a warrior's eyes, and sun-bronzed forearms had been toned with muscle and scarred, though her elegant silk dresses put him more to mind of a well-kept Solitude courtesan than a hardened warrior.

"What did she have to say about the duel? Do you think Beren's going to call her forwards to give evidence?"

"You know I can't talk about that. Besides, you should know better than me if Berens's going to call her forwards." he flushed as Absolard shook his head.

"Come on, you must know something. You were there weren't you?"

"Yeah, we were there. Not much to say to be honest. Walking through the streets of the Plains district game Meat Market, suddenly there was a lot of shouting, running crowds. Then a scream of pain. We got through the crowd to find Jon standing over the body of Thorald, before dropping his blood-dripping sword and running to hold Idolaf, crying as he tried to console his dying brother. Could have avenged his brother in anger which is understandable, but that fight doesn't strike me as an honourable duel, as much as a knife fight between a couple of idiots."

"Sounds like the Grey-Manes are liars to me. Think Beric agree with you as well. Problem is that I think Beric wants to fight an honourable way out for the Grey-Manes." Absolard looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Don't see how that's going to be done by the man."

"Well you known…Beren is…you know." He trailed off as he mouthed 'a god.' Absolard rolled his eyes at this.

"Then what fresh miracle does he plan to produce tomorrow?"

"Don't know."

"Alright then." Absolard scoffed.

"Shut up." He thought for a moment, before fishing a copper out from a puddle of ale on the table. "Beric told me that he used to make only six of these a day when he was in the guard. That's as much as a bowl of stew here, or a fresh-snared hare in Meatmarket. In Solitude a hare might be half that."

"So?"

"A Nord won't be happy if he spends his daily wage on a single meal. You've been to Whiterun more than I have, was it always this tense? This on edge?"

"During the war, sure- threat of dragons, invasion. Lady Isabella was mobbed by desperate people after driving Nahagliiv back from Markarth, especially after Riften burned."

"Same as Solitude though the Dragons never came close to our walls. Those were always outside threats though. Now we've got all our enemies inside the walls." He said thinking of the Stormcloaks who now flaunted their former loyalties. You wouldn't get that in Solitude.

"…and?"

"They need this 'Jeek's Day.' Get everyone together, calm them down, hear them out, and get them drunk together as friends. Once they're given their word, they won't go back on it, even to Beren- even those ex-Stormcloaks that walk the streets for all that they're willing to pose and fist-fight won't pick up a sword after they've sworn on their honour to him." Erik flushed, embarrassed by his passion, and Absolard looked unimpressed.

"People can't eat honour. They have a saying in High Rock 'when hunger knocks on the front door, reason flies out the back.' People don't care for heroes when they don't have food, and when a sword can get you today's meal, they'll pick it up and damn tomorrow's consequences." He shrugged, deep in thought "…. Speaking of our next meal." he trailed off as he waved a serving maid over to ask about their supper.

"Didn't think it was that bad."

"At the moment it's not- harvest has just come in which means the city is full of food, even if there's a lot less than was hoped because of battles and dragons. And they city's swollen with people- pilgrims, Stormcloaks and the rest, they're all driving up prices. hopefully they leave, but what if they stay? What if they start riots? If they do then in the spring, they're going to have to import grain, which will be pricey. Or rioters will loot barns and farms to eat the seed grain. The cities nobles are not going to be able to feed people if they're buying troops, putting down rioters and smothering fires."

Erik wad impressed at the young Breton's feel of the politics of this town.

"Did Lady Isabella teach you all that?"

"Ah, no. My family just has a lot of manors and estates. Growing up, I sat in the office and followed my father and his steward on inspections. Must have picked something up while I was playing with sticks and scaring the geese. Plus, with all the Orcs I've seen people crowd into the cities before. Raiders they are. I know how riots start- fear and desperation." Erik nodded. His father had always kept him distant from the family business, though he was grateful that trade seemed much cleaner and safer than farming, or the mining and industry his aunt engaged in.

"Apologies for the delay." Said a servant who arrived to cheers from the squires. He acknowledged them with a cheerful nod, squeezing in as he pulled a thick wood board out from under his arm and placed in on the table, on which he sat a small lidded cauldron, filled with piping hot stew of beef and winter vegetables, next to it a few loaves of good white bread. The squires ate their meal with hungry enthusiasm, heaped bowls steaming as their adolescent banter cut between them thick and fast, though the pitchers of ale that refilled their tankards were emptied with enthusiasm they were not refilled and the barmaid waved away with a polite dismissal. All of them would be involved in some way with tomorrows events, and today would be their last opportunity to relax for a while. It had been a busy week for all of them. They smelt of varnish, and polish and a host of other products which had been used to ready arms and armour for display. After dinner, they played a quick game of knucklebones for heading off. They tipped well, for though a rowdy crowd they were self-conscious of their noisy behaviour, and left a couple pieces of silver as a tip by way of thanks and apology, before hurrying away to their homes.

* * *

It seemed as though no sooner had Erik fallen asleep then dawn rushed upon him like a wild horse, pulling from his trunk bed to the business of the day and he was thankful that he had only drunk three pints of ale, and a had downed pitcher of water upon returning home. The first rays of morning peaked through the window of his small room brought with them the first murmurings and stirring that would soon turn to the roar and thrum of Whiterun in festival as the city roused itself. Murmurings matched by the complaints muttered by a servant under his breath as Erik hurried dawned his own armour before Meeting Beren in the Main Hall. They then rushed through the streets of the early dawn already the streets were lined with early risers and well-wishers, which Beren acknowledged with a cheerful through hurried greeting.

He had dawdled upon being admitted to the famous walled enclosure of Jorrvaskr and its large Mead hall, overcome by the magnificence of the setting and magnitude of moment before a yell brought him back to the present, hurrying through the hall to the under-hall, where Beren now stood in his private quarters in boots, leggings, shirt and arming doublet, waiting for Erik. He had grown up watching men and women being armed by their squires, and armouring his brothers and sisters for the practice yard. As a result, while he was unfamiliar with this particular style of armour, it followed a basic and familiar layout, and he slowly armoured the dragonborn while he named in his head in their Breton equivalents to ensure he did put anything on in the wrong order as he worked from the feet up.

First sabatons went over Beren's hobnailed boots, followed by greaves to protect the front of the leg, attached to the thick furry boots by small laces, buckles and points. There was no armour on the back of the leg to save weight, merely the thick leather and furs of the boot. Next, the knees were protected by poleyns and faun-plates. There was likewise no cuisse to protect the thigh, but instead the arming doublet hung low to the knees like a skirt, protecting the leg with tassets riveted into the arming doublet underneath the top layer of furs, critical protection against Skyrim's cold. Next, he lifted up a hauberk of Skyforged steel mail, and standing on a small footstool held it above Beren's head for him to work his arms into. The shirt clinked merrily as Beren worked the awkward garment onto his body, pushing his arms through and wriggling until it hung evenly upon his chest and protected his body to the waist and arms to the wrists. Erik quickly offered a war belt, the thick scared leather polished to a shine, which was secured around Beren's waist and helped to take some of the weight off his shoulders and onto his hips.

His mind began to wander as he worked, setting into the familiar rhyme. He started running through the plan for the day's events in his head. He had learnt that Jeek's day followed a simple, traditional format. The Harbinger of The Companions, attended by the circle and all the sworn brothers and sisters of the Companions would parade from Jorrvaskr through the streets of the city, to the main gates of the plains district. There, they would ceremonially observe for threats and dangers to the city, and leave a selection of Companions as gate guards, before processing back to the square of the Gildergreen, where they would declare the city safe and secured from attack to the assembled Jarl's court. The priests and mages would likewise be in attendance, and confirm the cities safety and protection by both divine and magical means. At this, the Jarl would declare the commencement of Jeek's day, and formally open the main festivities.

The Jarl, the Harbinger and various Thanes would sit in courts of honours to hear disputes and petitions for justice, lasting from late morning and to mid-afternoon. This would be followed by a feast and entertainments to symbolise the renewed tied as former enemies' now re-established friends broke bread together. Jeek's day however, to his understanding at least, had a popular but mildly mixed reputation- the wealthy of the city laying on public banquets often led to widespread drunkenness. charity was granted, with thanes, jarls and harbingers arranging marriages and dowries to orphans, pledging to stand in for missing parents, and worthy prisoners would be released from gaol as a gesture of clemency. It was however not uncommon for certain feuds to be ended with banishment or fines which tainted the day for the guilty party, or for the families of those prisoners released to object to the shortened sentences which those rightly condemned criminals received. He understood however that violence was frowned upon as an almost blasphemous act and that execution or public corporal punishment was forbidden as against the spirit of the day.

"All done sir." Erik said proudly after the last of the gauntlets were secured over its vambrace.

Beren adjusted his shoulders and opened and closed his hands speculatively, the metal clinking as the segmented plates slid gently over each other.

"Well done Erik." He nodded. "The speed will come with time but for a first effort that wasn't at all bad."

Eric grinned self-consciously as he offered the war belt, complete with arming sword and dagger in a matching style. Beren accepted it and buckled it with practiced ease. He then bent and took up the great axe Wuuthrad, looking at it with a guarded expression.

"Never liked axes myself" Erik babbled, now at a loss of what to do. Beren looked up searchingly at him

"Nervous?" Beren asked

"Should be a fine day." He answered, unwilling to admit it, feeling awkward at being scared of a crowd of thousands.

"Challenging but fun is how I would choose to describe it. Remember- we are on show today- and what you do and how you act will be a reflection on me. But once the opening formalities of the parade, the opening and the court are out of the way then we're done for the day. Just remember that and it'll be over before too long." Beren said breezily and finished with a nod, and they swept out of the room. Down the underground corridor they tramped on the gloomy stone floors, the low arched ceiling pressing down above them while the walls were lined with little cells, cramped sleeping quarters for companions lit faintly by flickering candles, before they marching up the steps to the main hall, the walls reverberating to the skitter and crack of their hobnailed shoes, slick on the flagstones and steps.

They emerged from the under-hall, and now that there was nothing to do but wait, sitting by the main doors. Beren closed his eyes, his fingers tapping an unfamiliar rhythm on the haft of Wuuthrad. Erik took a small tumbler of water from a barrel by the door, and realised self-consciously that he was sweating through his gambeson under his mail and cuirass, the thick cloth sticking to his skin. He looked around at the building. The hall felt small and cramped, having a more homely, lived in feel than he would have expected given the cold grandeur of Dragonsreach. The floor was dominated by the open central hearth, surrounded by solidly build though scared oaken tables arranged around three sides of the hearth. The roof was lost to sight in smoke and darkness, though pillars which held it up were solid, elegantly carved tree trunks, inlaid with gold and silver gilt which glinted in the sun light and fire light. The beams likewise, though smoke-blackened by the fires. Vibrant banners hung from the beams, died in rich reds, stitched with golden threads, while wall-hanging of rich blues, greens and reds told the history of past heroes. Weapons from noble duels, trophies of looted armour and hunted animals and mementoes of thousands of years of history that defied description cluttered the hall, yet it was the shield of Ysgramor, which hung over the central chair of the central table, the sole mark of rank amongst those chairs that held his attention- big as a wagon wheel, the silver-gilt surface burnished to a high sheen that reflected the ruddy glow of the open hearth, the designed beaten into the surface scattering and reflecting the firelight so that the old relic seemed to glow red in the morning light.

Slowly The Companions and The Circle clattered in. The Circle in their parade armour, a gift paid for upon their ascension, apart from Aela who wore her usual archaic harness. The rest wore an eccentric collection of Nordic, Imperial and Breton armour sets, or even more unusual ones. There was a Dunmer in the Bonemold spell plate of Morrowind, and even a set of flowing robes and mail worn by a Redguard who lingered on the edge of the group as they chatted easily and lent on their shields or otherwise waited. Almost a hundred companions now stood in the room, the majority of their guild and all that could be spared on make it back in time from their adventures across Tamriel. Vignar Grey-Mane made his own entrance, having managed to squeeze into his armour to join the parade, and he saw the slight ripple as his arrival played out across the crowd in whispers and shaken heads, all ignored by both the Grey-Mane and the Dragonborn. Finally, after a series of headcounts and hurried runners were sent to hurry along the late-comers and the last Companion was present, Beren ordered the doors open, and they marched out of Jorrvaskr and across the courtyard to the main gates.

The light of the fully risen sun was blinding after the smoky hall. The noise of the crowd was deafening, like the boom and crash of the sea of ghosts in storm upon the shore. Beren ordered the horns sounded, and the gates thrown open. First, the horns boomed out in the chill morning light of autumn, silencing the crowds with their brassy notes, and then when the gates were thrown open the crowds roared back their approval. Then the first hunt of The Companions marched out, three wide and ten deep, followed by The Circle arrayed in a protective formation around The Harbinger. Before them strode the two brothers, Vilkas and Farkas, along with another member of the companions who he did not recognise. Beren walked just behind them, Aela to his right hand and him to his left, while Vignar Grey-Mane took up his station behind them, along with two other members of the circle- Ria Metellus and Njada Stone-Arm. The second and third hunts of less senior companions followed on behind them.

They made their way through the streets towards Gildergreen square, here the streets were lined by the rich families of the nobility and merchants, who applauded and shouted from behind the loose line of relaxed town guards. Many others leaned from the upper balconies and windows of their townhouses, while the servants and the children of their families sat on the stone walls which surrounded their estates, legs dangling as they watched wide eyed and cheering. The tramp of the boots of a hundred companions echoed off these walls, the steady timing of it calming Erik as before them, beyond them they heard the massed echoes of the crowd in Gildergreen square.

They entered the square to wild acclaim, and here the guards were positioned denser, keeping the massed pilgrims and festival goers back to allow The Companions to secure the city as they had done since the foundation of Whiterun. Erik could see the scaffolding already occupied by the Jarl's party and his guests. Beric would be there, along with Serana, Lydia and the rest of the Dragonborn's household of sufficient rank to merit mixing with the local nobility. But it was the reaction of the crowd which took him most be granted. The minute they entered the crowd chants erupted from the crowd, and they surged forwards, barely held back by the interlinked shields of the guards.

"Dovahkiin!"

"Dragonborn"

"Dovahkiin!"

"Dragonborn!"

"DOVAHKIIN!"

"DRAGONBORN!"

"Bless us!"

"Bless us all!"

Beren acknowledged their cheers, with a lordly gesture, a broad smile on his face. Many of them were pilgrims, their eyes filling with tears and they fell to their knees as they passed by, chanting hymns and praises, or rending their threadbare road-dusted robes in religious fervour. Others were the families of merchants and lesser nobility or the wealthier warriors of the city, and they watched in a cheerful but well-behaved crowd, toasting their progress with horns of mead, mugs of ale and goblets of wine from where the tables for the later public banquets had been set up. In this way they made their way through the crowds from the Gildergreen square and down the south road. Out of the square the people lining the streets or watching from the walls did not much impede their progress. They made their way out through the inner gate and down the stairs into the heart of the Plains district, through the Meatmarket, the spittals and then to the main gatehouse of Whiterun.

It was here that the mass of the citizenry lived, having been kept from the Winds district by the town guards and entertained by the feasts organised by their local guilds of metal workers, butchers, milliners and the like. They streets were crooked, narrow and densely packed with the common people. At one point they passed almost underneath a veteran, a muscle-bound Imperial with a red bandana stretched across the bald dome of his shaven head, sitting on top of a groaning tavern sign with two huge battered silver goblets in each hand. He raised one in unsteady salute.

"Remember me sir?" he called cheerfully

"Polonius! Still In one piece?"

"Course, Fucking Invincible I Am Sir! Thirteen!" he bellowed, over-enunciating as though he was still on the parade square to the approving crowds who roared with similar legion pride or cat-called back with their own legion numbers.

"See you've found a steady perch for the night."

"Out of reach up here Sir. I've seen how you Nords get when drunk." He hiccupped and drained the goblet, before sprinkling the dregs of the wine on those below, who yelled back and cursed as it stained their feasting finery.

"Aye, and I've seen what Imperials drink!"

The crowd roared their approval and the veteran grinned back broadly.

Finally, they entered the Meatmarket, and it was with that moment Erik truly got the sense of the size of the population of the city. At their arrival Beren flourished and pumped the great axe Wuuthrad above his head in salute, grinning broadly in response to how they cheered and screamed their approval. He had though the hundreds which had packed the Gildergreen square had been dense, but the Meatmarket was half the size of that and held thousands. The square was filled with little stalls and tables doing a brisk trade in pasties, drink and trinkets, surrounded by thatched roof wattle and daub buildings. Many of the crowd stood upon the tables laid out for the public banquet, hoisting their children onto their shoulders, other people were climbing carts, walls and even the roofs of the buildings. Imperial legion veterans were much in evidence, and they yelled out to Beren as they passed, and he yelled back, here and there recognising junior officers and men by face or by name, and making some quick-witted reply to their remarks as they passed by. Others surged forwards with a roar like a battlecry as they received The Companions and their hero, a man who had once walked amongst them as a boy.

The guards lining their route were pushed back by the surge of the people, foot by foot, scraping and sparking on the flagstones and soon the great column of the companions was strung out, arms clamped to their sides and they shouldered and pushed their way through. Arms reached out from the crowd, before, behind and over him, thrust by crying faces as they reached out to touch the man they held as their saviour. Beren slung Wuuthrad over his shoulder, awkwardly trying to acknowledge their thanks, shaking hands quickly as they pushed through the melee. Here and there men and women burst into tears at his touch, or else fainted as he laughed and joked with the crowd cheerfully. Imperial banners flew along the Whiterun mare, waved with zealous enthusiasm by the crowds.

Having passed through the Meatmarket the entered the final stretch down to the main city gates, passing through the blacksmiths quarter along Iron-monger Street before turning onto Plains Gate Road. The crowded masses of celebrating citizen that had characterised the Meatmarket thinned here, slowly but surely. The street was broad, and lined with secure and squat little shops, the air smelt of soot and industry. Though the fires had been quenched and the tools dropped for the holiday, this was a cheerless place of hard industry. Blacksmith-forges, smelters, pawnshops and weapons traders lined the road, selling weapons and tools of simple and sturdy make. People still lined the streets or stood around the quiet forges and anvils, in threadbare and patched clothes, waving and cheering sedately at their passages. Their cheers however were self-conscious and forced it seemed, an act of approval that was calculated in its insult to some other, unseen but not unfelt party. Here and there on the outskirts of the thinning crowds people slipped away in ones and twos. Others just stood and watched, unblinkingly and arms folded, scattered throughout the crowd in threadbare blue cloaks that appeared lining their route in always limited but increasing numbers.

This was the home of many of the returned Stormcloaks, who left their swords at Blizzard's Rest and on their return had bartered away their armour for drink. Now they eked out living on what work they could find porters, carter, thieves and beggars amongst the lanes and byways of the quarter and the slaughterhouses and slums that made up the spittals behind the Meatmarket and Iron-Monger Road. A few small public feasts had been laid on, in cramped forecourts and forge yards, small temple-fronted squares or down narrows alleys, and the crowd grew quieter with every step they took. The houses were smaller in width, their narrow fronts cramped together and there were fewer carvings on the woodwork. Off the main road that they were following the cobblestones rapidly faded away into muddy rutted streets, and the smell of rotting flesh from the spittals's slaughterhouses mixed with stench of human waste. It had been down those streets that the priestess of Kyne Aeta Stone-Strider had given birth to two healthy young boys, before dying of some flux or sickness and leaving them to fend for themselves. The lanes and alleys he looked down seem determined to close themselves off from his probing sight, with their meandering lanes hung with laundry stained with soot. Here and there graffiti, heretical in his eyes in its praise of the nine was daubed, alongside the Bear of Eastmarch.

"Will you share a drink with us Dragonborn?" Came a sarcastic yell from the audience.

"Enjoying your feast tonight will you Dragonborn?"

"Your new house looks awfully grand from down here don't it Beren?"

"Don't have time to drink with us tonight do you?"

"How hard did Elisif have to fuck you for her throne then?"

"You can have a go on my tits tonight, seeing as they're bigger than your missus's." A Dunmer whore cat-called from a narrow balcony, stripped to the waist and jiggling her breasts with her hands.

Aela stared ahead blankly and Beren was silent at this, ignoring the provocation, and as if sensing his mood, the marching companions sped up their approach as the rounded the corner and marched down Plains Gate road. Here the crowd was cheerful, many townspeople, weavers and merchants made their trade in cloth and general goods, and people were well turned out and cared for by their local guilds and thanes. Beren was stone faced by Erik side, acknowledging their cheers with little nods or waves of the axe.

They arrived at the gate, and Beren quickly detached the third hunt to secure the gatehouse, the warriors took up their positions- men and women who could be trusted to remain sober and alert while the town watch drank insensible at their posts or else crawled into their beds. Climbing the guard towers of the gatehouse, he quickly made his way in a circuit around the crenulations, making a show to the crowds of checking in every direction around him that there was not threat to the city. Descending again, he oversaw the locking of the City gates, and relieved the Guard Captain of the keys, securing them onto his belt to later present to the Jarl, assuring him as Harbinger that the city was secure for the festivities to begin.

They resumed their march, the first hunt leading off, followed by The Circle and the second hunt bringing up the rear. At the bottom of the hill the noise of the city was thrown towards them, a riotous clamouring of the city eager for their report. Music rose as they began their return, horns and fifes and lutes took up the tune, along with a brassy drumming like an under beat, a current that would carry them back home, but which increasingly overshadowed the woodwinds and string with its raw power and force. They could see the wall that encircled the winds district, topped with evenly spaced squat towers. Jorrvaskr peaked up just above the walls, the fortified compounds market with its distinctive roof, the remains of the longship which had carried Jeek here to found his home and claim the Skyforge for the Nords. Above all else they could see the soaring rooves of the Dragonsreach just making out its own little fortified gate guarding the broad staircase that wound back and forth down to the Winds district, and the Gildergreen square. As they marched off up the hill the drumming grew. A strange noise, tinny and discordant to their ears, as hundreds of drums beat out of time, all without direction for their speed or rhythm. Or like the clatter of thousands of rocks thrown upon a tiled roof.

They reached the end of Plains Gate Road and turned back down Iron-Monger Road. The noise was unbearable here, that strange metallic drumming burning into their ear drums, shaking their heads. The Companions that surrounded them casually reached down and eased their swords in their scabbards for a quick drawn. A cacophony of sound, which seemed to stab into the very eyes of its listener, rattling the teeth in their heads. Surely this must be what a battle sounds like Erik wondered.

The peasants were beating metal on metal. There were children beating pots and pans together, their hungry pinched faces light with glee. There were old maids, clanging stone against the family cauldron. Leant on their sides, the cavernous holes loomed towards them, ringing their ears. The blacksmiths were beating their hammers against their anvils, filling the air with sparking savage strikes. And the street roughs, with old helmets and bucklers to hand or else with the lids of pots or pans. Some with only squares of sheet metal, striking them with the pommels of their daggers in a resounding, never-ending racket. Erik resisted the instinct to clap his hands over his ears at the din and gritted his teeth. Hammers rose and fell, drowning out all thought, all sound.

The sound was fuelled by their betrayal, their hate and their desperation. Many must have been Stormcloaks at the Battle of Blizzards Rest, or their families. Cut off by Imperial cavalry and Breton Knights to the rear, massed Breton pike phalanxes to the flanks and the steady ranks of the imperial legion to the front, they had been from amongst the ten thousand that had thrown down their swords at Beren's feet, trading them swords for their lives, and allowed to depart upon pain of sworn oath. The battlecry 'Victory or Sovngarde' made it clear what Nords expected of their warriors in battle, and surrender was not amongst those two options. Many abided by their oath, and returned in peace to family and farm, or else to Whiterun, Riften, Dawnstar or Windhelm. Some were happy to see their loved one back. Other families cursed them for holding their lives over their honour, their fathers or mothers casting them out to live on the streets as unworthy successors to their line. A few never came home at all, living as poachers in the wilds unable to bear the shame, and fearing the Thalmor Justiciars who might well follow them home. Others reneged their oaths, again taking up arms as bandits or returning to Stormcloak colours as Imperial armies marched on their town, but to be an oath-breaker to The Dragonborn was no easy thing for a mortal soul to bear, and the shame of it burnt deep in the breasts of many. Now they hated him for it, perhaps wishing rather to have been cut down where they had stood than condemned to live on in shame and ignominy.

He could see now the ring-leaders. Grinning men in finer clothes, fingers heavy with warrior rings, the iron of their rings taken from the smelted down weapons of their kills, a savage custom from an earlier age. They stood ostentatiously, unmoving amongst the riotous crowd, revelling in the opportunity to shame The Dragonborn and his chosen men in return. He looked desperately at Beren, terrified. Why didn't he do something. Why didn't he shut them down? He looked wide eyed, and hugged on the gauntlet to get Beren's attention.

"It's Jeek's day. They won't hurt us." He yelled into his ear, though it seemed scarcely a whisper above the noise of the crowd. Indeed, they could not. For Jeek's day banned such violence, just as their oath bound them. They would stand by and protest, but would not lay a hand upon them lest they be double-damned in the eyes of gods and men, likewise the Companions stayed their hand, honour compelling them to ignore pointed provocations of the old, the sick and the unarmed. Beren walked by untroubled. Here and there they spat upon ground The Companions walked upon, though all kept their distance and held their resolve. Others damned them with a gesture, turning their backs on the Dragonborn that was unfit for their eyes. Erik turned to Beren, wondering what he would do in response to that. Beren was red faced, his jaw set and his head fixed forwards as he ignored the mockery of the people of the slums. His eyes did not glace left or right, but straight ahead as he marked on, determined not to be provoked. They seemed almost blank, devoid of emotion or response as all jollity, all anger drained from them in that ruddy face. Now he looked, he seemed more embarrassed than angry. Erik reflected on what The Dragonborn had told him previously, about the dirty-blonde poacher they had encountered, and the damage that Serana had told him of when he had called down his Thu'um upon the city of Windhelm. He looked around the people around them, and wondered as their foolish bravery, the recklessness that led them to provoke Beren.

Finally, they left the Iron-Monger Street behind. Ears bleeding as a strange ringing filled his head, Erik followed and the returned to the warm cheers of the people. they marched back up to the city, entered the Gildergreen and there Beren, acting as though he had quite forgotten the display of the city below, formally presented the keys to Jarl Balgruuf the Greater, making his report in a bellowing voice. Balgruuf matched it, and declared the festivities open.

* * *

Beren looked over the table before him from his fur-covered high-backed chair, his Skyforged steel greatsword sheathed and leaning against is armrest. His expression was stern, but the flush of his cheeks showed that his rage, always simmering now happily bubbled below the surface. Erik had been left shaken by this morning's display, and Beric had been quick to sit him down and have a look at his ears from behind the Jarl's stand in the Gildergreen square. With a calm hand he had carefully wiped away the blood and healed the damaged eardrums, and while the head ache remained, the high-pitched bell like ringing that had filled his head had faded with it while Beren, Serana and the Jarl's advisors bickered over how to react to such a blatant demonstration, indeed provocation by the Stormcloak veterans. However, given the thunderous expression on Beren's face, he was quite certain that Thanes Vignar of the Grey-Manes and Olfrid of the Battle-Borns would be willing to trade places with him for almost anything.

So far this morning the cases presented had been open and shut affairs- all the real work having been handled days in advance by law-speakers and the like. First a pair of brothers who had been banished from their clan were welcomed back into the fold, each side paying wergild for the injuries done to each other, and crying as they embraced. Then a pair of distant relations arguing over a series of competing wills was settled through Beren calmly and clearly reading the carefully written arbitration set before him by the Law-Speaker, and challenging any who refused to respect the rulings to single combat. A couple who eloped to get married were welcomed back, the vows of revenge both sides sworn rescinded through a period of penance ordered by Beren and overseen by priests of Stendarr, god of mercy. Finally, a father who had been revealed to be cheating on his wife was forced to recognise his other son, and make restitution to both his own family and his mistress, who had been deceived into believing they were to marry. It had merely been for Beren to pronounce the closure of hostilities, oversee the paying of the fines or the swearing of oaths. A toast from a traditional shared drinking bowl between the two now reconciled parties was drunk and then they departed, more interested in telling the story of how the Dragonborn adjudicated and witnesses the end of their conflict than anything else.

The herald, a quick witted Dunmer sent from Dragonsreach stood up and announced the next case.

"The Harbinger will hear petitions form the families of the Battle-Borns and Grey-Manes concerning the deaths of Olfrid and Thorald. May the Divines grant him wisdom and mercy in his judgement." He returned to his seat to Beren's left, while to Beren's right sat a Law-speaker from the College of Solitude, a middle aged Redguard woman with an expression which suggested that an extended blood-feud between the houses could only be an improvement to quality of the city's nobility. They sat on a low platform in the training yard of Jorrvaskr. Below them there was a small witness bench, where amongst the small crowd Erik saw Absolard sat scratching his chin absentmindedly next to Lady Isabella who was watching proceedings closely, while the two contending families sat on benches, separated at a distance of two swords lengths by a single file of town guards. Finally, the prisoner, Jon Battle-Born was led out, chained between two guards. He was dirty, and his clothing was torn and thread bare, this was often a deliberate act by the accused to provoke sympathy or their plight, but Erik rather though they were over-doing it given he had only spent a couple of days in the Cells.

Beren motioned to the left-hand group.

"The Harbinger calls Thane Vignar Grey-Mane, Sworn-Brother of the Companions to give evidence." The Herald announced.

Vignar started, strode forwards and offered and awkward bow. His balding head shone with sweat under the overcast autumn skies, and thinning strands of hair were caught and waved in the wind. He rose heavily in his ceremonial armour and began to speak.

"Four thousand years ago our fore-fathers landed here, a valley untainted by Merish pollution, protecting by the Skyforge, sacred to the Divines. Perfect, unspoilt virgin lands for the proud sons of Atmora, and the noble daughters of Kyne to work and to till. United as one they had departed Atmora, five hundred strong, tongues all. They arrived despondent, shattered and divided from their great journey, scattered upon the waves. Here Jeek and his crew settled to gather their strength and winter their crew until the coming of spring. His intentions to stay he made clear to all, turning his ship into their winter shelter there could be no retreat, no rapid departure from this place they would make their home. He called his crew together, and mediated their complaints, and heard their disputed with the wisdom of Ysmir, and the forbearance of Stuhn. It is to them that we commit our case, and beg they hear our plea."

Beren was so far unmoved by this flowery language, but Vignar was warming to the subject, and had begun to slowly paced back and forth before his family and deputations from the wider clan.

"Amongst his crew stood Virnek Grey-Mane, and his wife Varna, the progenitors of our line. Today we stand here still, counting amongst our ancestors those who fought at the battle of Mournhold against the heretical Dunmer. Ancestors who stood firm with Talos at the Battle of Sancre Tor against the Magicks of the Bretons, by which victory our very empire was founded. Most recently, those who fought with the Imperial Legions at the battle of the Red Ring, buying our victory the safety of our blessed homeland with their blood."

Here he turned towards the Battle-Borns, lecturing them with the full-flow of his words

"It is to this line that we were called to act by honour, to avenge the insults done to use this day by the line of Battle-Born. No less noble in their history, and indeed once I was given to call them friend, to invite them by my fireside in peace and to toast their health, wealth and happiness. No more. It is a brave man's part to live with honour, or with honour die. For when a man has died, honour is the inheritance his children receive above all else. This honourable inheritance must be maintained by every man and woman of the clan, burnished and upheld."

At this he adverted his gaze from the unclean family before him. He turned his back upon them, dismissing them and the muttered curses uttered behind his back. He stepped forwards, arms wide, palms to the heavens as he made his case to Beren.

"Two days ago on the feast of Tales and Tallow Jon Battle-Born broke into our house in disguise, there, he insulted my family with his very presence, abused our guests with foul language, my daughter's betrothed he assault and then fled into the night like a thief, leaving the man bleeding and senseless upon the floor."

Vignar hurried across the open space, pointing at Jon and bellowing as he rushed.

Look at his face! his guilt is written clean upon it! If he denies it, I have witnesses of my own to prove it."

He turned his back again on him, and carefully adjusted his hair which was in now disarray from his antics, taking the opportunity to mop the sweat from his brow. Jon by contrast sat still and stared straight ahead, his expression unreadable, as though Vignar's allegation bothered the young nobleman as much as did wisp of distant grey cloud on an autumn morning's horizon which threatened an afternoon's rain. His unconcern seemed to push Vignar to greater and greater anger, and he began puffing with exertion, red-raged at the cool reception his target gave him.

"The insult this dog has done to our family must be punished! The very Divines cry out for vengeance! Our ancestors scream for his blood! By all the laws of beasts and men and gods, it is our right to cut him down where he stands! And so, Honour-sworn and filled with noble intent, my son, my boy departed to right this wrong. He found Jon his carousing in the slums of our fair city, as is his place, amidst the thieves, rogues and whores that suit his station and family name. He challenged him to a duel to revenge his past insults, and instead was upbraided in foul and coarse language in his refusal. Instead he allowed his own brother to fight, and then voided the result of the duel when he cut down my own son after the stroke that felled his champion. They speak of honour, but tell me Battle-Born how did you defend it? At no point did Jon set hand to steel to risk with his own blood the words that flow worthless from his mouth like wind from a Daedra's arse!"

Uproar followed this and the two families began screaming and yelling at each other. One or two even coming to blows, and immediately a troop of guards came filling out, pulling the two families apart. Beren watched un-impressed, chatting quietly with the law-speaker and the herald. Erik catch snatches of their conversation. It was clear from the law-speaker's point of view that Vignar had hoped trade on his own service to the companions, and that more favourable hearing he was likely to get from them in comparison to the normal law-speakers who heard an endless succession of similar cases concerning returning Stormcloaks. Meanwhile Beren murmured that Vignar presented Jon as violent spend-thrift, lacking in restrain or dignity and thus clearly a dangerous murderer who depended upon his newly fashionable imperial connections (and his families rumoured thieves' guild ones) to protect and enable his debauched behaviour. A man who the Harbinger should declare an outlaw, to be ejected from the city, and then could killed without legal Interference. Vignar now re-appeared, a large cut above his head gently weeping blood as he stanched it with a rag of cloth. Beric could have healed such a wound in an instant, and Erik wounded how Vignar would react to the offer of magical healing. But there were no healers present, for the enclosure was sealed and instead he endured it as best he could. Eventually order was restored, and tired of hearing the Grey-Manes speak he motioned Olfrid, patron of the great clan Battle-Born to speak.

He strode forwards a dignified figure in his nobles' robes, a fine fur wrapped around his shoulders, planting his feet firmly on the ground, and placing his hands on the lapels of his robe, he directed his speech to Beren, ignoring all else as he spoke plainly and directly.

"It is not of the similarities but of the difference between our two houses that I will speak. We are both alike in dignity, honour and nobility that detailing such issues presumes the ignorance of the listeners, and does nothing to solve the issues before us. We shall waste no time in reciting such matters. That is one way we differ from the Grey-Manes. Another is how Vignar offers insults in the place of explanations, with us it is the opposite. He claims Jon offered provocation but refused to answer it will steel, but today he offers us similar insults but counts upon our respect for customs to prevent violence and bloodshed, yet searches for such an outcome for his own ends. Finally, is how we uphold our honour. To our oaths we are bound, and our traditions we hold."

"Of our observance of the traditions I will speak first. On Tales and Tallows my son did visit the house of the Clan of Grey-Mane in disguise. This is true and I admit it freely. He did so to attend the party that the Grey-Manes were holding, a masked ball. This was foolish. But what was the greater foolishness- to attend such an event uninvited, or to host on Tales and Tallows of all days. Can you imagine it- the distaste to hold such an event on such a day! Such behaviour, Such shame!"

This set his small band of supporter to muttering "Shame, shame," in a pompous echo as they shook their heads, Olfrid took no notice and spoke over them.

"Secondly, I will talk of our preservation of our honour. The Grey-Manes allege that my son insulted Thorald but refused to fight him. This is a lie. Our son upheld both his own honour and Thorald's through his refusal not to engage in an illegal duel. Or to be plain, a knife fight in a dark alley. Idolaf refused to duel with a man in a crowded street, fought only to defend his life when he had no other choice, and by his honour he died, steel in hand taking his wounds to the front. Let the Grey-Manes challenge this, what witnesses have they brought? Who amongst them was there that now stands alive and can speak of his conduct?"

"And finally, I speak of oaths. How can we trust a Grey-Mane to honour their Oaths in this Court of Honour? Jon chose not to fight Thorald, he was moderate and temperate in his behaviour, seeking to turn away Thorald and Idolaf from rash action. Thorald swore never again to carry weapon or to raise a hand against the imperial legion, yet within days of his return to Whiterun he reneges on both, and his family seeks mercy from the very man his conduct shamed!"

At this point he strode forwards and clapped his hands upon his son's shoulders, covered in dirt and clad in clothes gone to rags, the very picture of a remorseful victim of circumstance.

"We stand before you today Dragonborn proud of our past, but humble in the present. I have lost one son to a murderer. A murder my son revenged through the self-defence of his own life. I admit he was wrathful in his anger in bringing the criminal to justice, but what man can say honestly, he would act otherwise after watching his own flesh and blood cut down before his eyes? I beg you as a father, do not rob me of another son this day."

This provoked applause and scattered tears from the onlookers of the Battle-Born clan, while the Grey-Manes booed and called for blood. Beren quieted them with a glance and a wave of his hand, before calling the first witness forwards while he sent Erik for pitchers of ale and water. When he returned, he fought that Lady Isabella had taken the stand. A Nord woman in her early thirties, she had been born and raised in High Rock but had journeyed to Skyrim to visit the land of her mother's birth almost three years previously. He had seen her previously in training clothes with rolled sleeves, or else clad head to toe in fine Breton plate armour with greatsword swinging as she trained with Beren or Beric. Today instead she wore a low-cut bodice dress from High Rock of some white dyed silk, with skirts that fell to trail on the ground and sleeves that extended to the wrists. An elegant girdle circled her waist, heavy with finely worked gold and studded with sapphires to match her hair and eyes. Erik knew however that it was not her revealing foreign dress that would damn her in the eyes of the prudish, provincial Grey-Manes, but her birth. It was well known that she had an Altmer Sorcerer somewhere in her immediate family tree, and her face had a slight elven cast to it, in her pallor, her chin and her cheekbones. Most damning was the small points of her ears, and already the Grey-Manes were muttering "knife ears" and "mongrel" behind her back. She smiled sweetly at her old friend on his chair as she took the oath, dipped a neat curtsey and began her testimony.

"Hello again Beren. By Dibella, my how long it's been."

"Lady Isabella, too long by Shor. And I wish it was under more pleasant circumstances. I understand that you were in the Meatmarket at the time of the incident, could you explain what you were doing there?"

"I was there as part of the Grand Temple of Kynareth's charitable mission into the slums. As a skilled alchemist I know more than a little bit about the diseases that spread through those streets amongst the poor and needy. I brought food, medicine and my considerable expertise."

"And what did you see while there?"

"There have been plenty of pretty speeches made today. What a shame that Idolaf and Thorald didn't follow their fathers' examples in talking out their disagreements." She cast her eyes coolly over her shoulder at the Battle-born, before letting them rest a moment longer on the Grey-Manes.

"I was working by the Inn forecourt, treating scrofula patients. In the forecourt a man was sitting in with a couple of others, when another man appeared wearing a sword and followed by a couple of friends of his own, also armed. This man, who I later learned was Thorald, yelled for Erik to come out and die. Unsurprisingly, he didn't. Idolaf in reply told him to drop his blade before he dropped him- he used those words exactly. Thorald replied that he had cut down any number of imperials, a man that dresses like one but has never seen battle should be easy. Anyways, Thorald killed Idolaf, Erik appeared in the doorway, saw the blade in Thorald's hand and reminded him of his oath to you, Beren. When Thorald started walking towards him and he saw his brother's body the smart lad realised what was up, drew his blade in self-defence, and killed Thorald. Then he dropped his blade and wept over his brother's body until the guards arrested him."

"thank you, Lady Isabella."

Vignar suddenly pushed forwards, stalking towards the woman.

"How can we trust this foreign knight from High Rock? This worshipper of imported Elvish deities? She was unable to identify either of our sons, and she is a good friend to many of the Imperial cause. They may be exploiting her close friendship with the Harbinger to gain a favourable conclusion for the Battle-Born. Her evidence should be dismissed." Vignar pull in, waving her away like an irritating flea, Erik found this rather hypocritical, given how he was here trying to trade on the Harbinger's goodwill for organising much of the public sceptical and entertainments for the day.

"Are you suggesting perhaps that another fight in the same inn on the same day killed two men in exactly the same way?" Isabella snapped back.

"That's enough from both of you." Beren thundered, rapping the table with his gauntleted hands for silence. "Lady Isabella has a reputation of impeachable honesty, and her worship of the Breton faith or Imperial divines is not sufficient grounds to eject her evidence from the court simply because she worships Kynareth over Kyne. I have already spoken to the law-speaker of our past, which the Grey-Manes misrepresent to their discredit." At this Vignar flushed and looked like he was going to speak again, but Beren locked eyes on him, daring him to question him further, and he thought better of it. They stood in silence, as he turned to quietly debate with the Law-Speaker and the Herald. The Law-Speaker seemed to disagree with him, but the Herald nodded in agreement.

Beren stood, and formally began his summing up.

"The decision of this court is that Idolaf and Thorald engaged in an Illegal duel, without giving due notice or seconds, which was fought within the boundaries of the city walls. If one had lived, they would have committed the crime of murder, and a sentence normally deserving of death. With their deaths, it is decided that honour on both sides is satisfied, and that no wergild shall be exchanged."

This was perhaps the unsurprising part, and Erik was grateful that Beren had taken his brother's advice. The families looked only slightly relieved that they were not being asked to pay wergild to the other.

"However, we also find Jon Battle-Born guilty of entering under false pretences, assault, gross body harm on the person of Froki Silver-Stream, the betrothed of Olfina Grey-Mane, and of manslaughter in self-defence of Thorald Grey-Mane. In the light of the death of his brother, we hereby exile him from the city and hold of Whiterun for ten years."

This provoked howls from both families, as they began to attempt to protest. It was Beren however who reached down and pulled his sheathed greatsword up from where it had lent by his chair, and dropped it with a clatter into the table before them, silencing them all.

"If the Battle-Borns refuse my verdict then I will uphold my judgment by force of arms, and if needs be challenge Jon Battle-born or any champion he dares name, to single combat. May Tsun bless our trial."

Unwilling to discover who the eight would favour in such a contest of strength and skill-at-arms, the Battle-Borns nodded, and their protests ceased, Beren then turned to the more emotive of the two groups.

"Grey-Manes. Let it be known that Jon Battle-born will depart into exile unharmed. Given your behaviour and to ensure your good behaviour, you will offer up one hostage from your family to my household until Jon Battle-born has departed. Once he has left, the hostage will be released."

Vignar began to protest but Beren cut him off, and lowered his voice into a harsh growl.

"….and if, you dispatch riders with poison or blades in the night after he has left, then I will return and claim that hostage, and burn your hall down around you all with you still inside it. I that completely understood?"

Outraged at this blatant threat to his family, Vignar looked on the cusp of challenging the dragonborn. However, his wife touched him by the hand, and shook his head.

"Aye." He muttered through his moustache, eyes on the floor. The man looked like he might collapse.

Jon looked relieved, and was kissing his hysterical mother on the cheek, trying to calm her as he was led away in chains to spend his last night in Whiterun in a cell beneath Dragonsreach. Olfina fainted into the mass of the Grey-Manes, who crowded around the young lady, casting murderous glances at all around, the Battle-Borns, Lady Isabella, and finally at the Dragonborn.

* * *

After the excitement of the courts of honour there was as small break before the feasting that marked the formal end of hostilities. Washed and changed out of their armour and into their finest clothes, Erik and Beren returned to the great Mead Hall of Jorrvaskr. The tables were richly laid with gleaming golden table ware and white tundra-cotton table clothes. A small quartet of musicians played 'the dragonborn comes' from a corner, while servants circled obtrusively carrying horns of mead, goblets of wine and small pastries on elegant platers. A pair of wrestlers fought by the fire, grappling their sweat-slicked bodies to the cheers betting onlookers. Erik looked carefully amongst the crowds. Aela was there in an elegant dress heavy with gold and trimmed with furs, chatting away to Njada stone-Arm, while Vilkas and Farkas were engaged in a drinking competition, standing on the tables sending the golden table wear skittering as they matched each other drink for drink. Beren touched him on the arm and took him to one side.

"You impressed me today with how you handled the crowds along Iron-Monger Road. They were trying to provoke a fight, and you maintained your dignity, your composure, something that you have previously had issues with." At this Beren gave him a hard look, and he remembered with burning cheeks how he had accosted the woman with dirty-blonde hair on the trail to Half-Moon camp. "That's all wiped away now. I'm proud of how you dealt with that near-riot. That bodes well for the future." He paused for a moment, conflicted, and then shook his head. "I can trust you to behave yourself for now, can't I?"

"Of course, sir."

"Good. I'll have no need to call upon you further tonight. Go pestered Farkas and Vilkas about their adventures or Njada about her hunting. Go! Enjoy yourself!" With that he shooed Erik away. Aela appeared by his side as if summoned there, pressed a horn of mead into his hands and pulled him away with a breezy laugh. They disappeared into the press, laughing and joking as they went.

At a loss Erik walked easily through the crowds. None of the squires had been invited, nor had the other members of The Dragonborn's household- Beren, Serana and the rest had all been invited to the Jarl's Palace, as the Jorrvaskr feast had been strictly reserved for the Companions and those who had laid their petitions before The Harbinger. The Circle was unknown to him, and given the state of intoxication that the twins were in he would be lucky to get a coherent sentence from them, let alone a story.

"Erik!" He was suddenly pulled into a headlock, and he yelled in surprise, grasping the arm that encircled his neck. "Who let a little runt like you in?"

"Absolard?" he gasped. "Let go of me you maniac!" laughing, he released him and Erik rose up, flushed and embarrassed. The beaming squire pressed a cup of Solitude spiced wine into his hand.

"Aren't you glad to see me?"

"Not if you're going to welcome me that that! What are you doing here?...are you gate-crashing?" he whispered, aghast. He laughed it off.

"Yes. We're gate-crashing the most secure party in Skyrim. We figured no one would notice, especially if we didn't stick out." He deadpanned and nodded to Lady Isabella, who was now surrounded by a group of flush-faced hungry eyed admirers, laughing at everything she said and hurriedly topping up her goblet.

"She's popular tonight."

"Probably the only bit of culture in Skyrim, besides the bard and maybe that jester. The Bards I've heard off but the other one? A nattering, capering Imperial fellow. 'the Fool of Hearts' they call him. 'Broke in the head' I reckon. I've never heard of a funny-man in this province before."

"We usually turn them away at the border as a public menace. We've heard how they celebrate in High Rock, 12 course meals and those absurd dances like the Volta. There's no need for all that in Skyrim! We like to keep things simple. A roast, thick-cut and still pink and bloody in the centre, a never-empty cup and a bard is all we need!"

"And maybe a good fight to two!" a passing companion put in, grinning broadly.

"Yes, well Enough of that. Drink a toast with me." Absolard thought for a moment and then raised his cup.

"To Beren Stone-Strider!" Erik raised his own cup, and repeated the toast, and The Companions around him pressed in, adding their own cheers. They drained their cups, and raised another toast, to Aela Stone-Strider, to Jarl Balgruuf, to Lady Isabella, to Ingun Black-Briar, his betrothed. The rich meads of Whiterun and Riften and the wines of Solitude and the Alto Valley loosened their tongues, and they relaxed, telling tales of animal hunts, duels and hair-raising escapes.

Eventually a gong sounded the start of the feast, and they filled their seats around the central hearth, Beren seated in the centre under the shield of Ysgramor, his wife to his right and Erik seated to his left as his squire. There was no formal high table here, all tables were served in unison. First a rich soup was served, red and spiced, accompanied by large loaves of white bread which were broken and passed in halves between the formerly feuding families, and their protectors and arbitrators. Then three huge roast oxen were carried out, spitted from the roasting pits and placed before them on wrought-iron stands, where their mouth-watering scent filled the room. Great cuts were hacked off their bones with sharp knives and carried in steaming piles, accompanied by baked potatoes, roasted onions, carrots, leeks and a rich gravy. More wine, mead, beer and ale was carried out, along with more unusual drinks, like sujamma, limoncello and rum. Then the desert course came, confections wrought in the shape of dragons and manticores from sugar, there were sweet rolls, glazed and powdered, along with cream and little pastries of apple, pear and snowberry.

The noise of the hall was immense. Here and there drunken guests wrestled, slapped each other on the back, laughed, cried, cheered. The band quartet was entirely drowned out. Beren laughed freely most of all, constantly turning between his wife and him, sending drinks down the table or calling upon his friends for stories or songs. Erik could see a prominent space had been left, three seats on the table where the Battle-Born sat. it would seem that the Grey-Manes had refused to break-bread with them, and had scorned the Harbinger's arbitration and hospitality, a calculated insult that would have to be answered in gold or blood in the future. If Beren saw it he gave no notice of it. Instead, a couple of small tumblers and a flask of akvavit arrived, and he poured out three small measures as the remains of the feast were carried away. The table wear removed, and the carcasses carried off. There was a pleasant alcoholic buzz in the air as they waited for the entertainments, the bard and then the fool of hearts that would be soon to appear.

"So, one day a Breton and a Dunmer were walking along one of Skyrim's roads" he explained, flushed with alcohol and turning from him to Aela and back again. Aela propped her chin on her hand and winked behind her husband's back, in a way that told him to prepare himself.

"And the Dunmer says 'I have been told that Skyrim is home to all manner of savage and barbaric creatures. Is this true?' And the Breton replies 'Oh yes, but they are easy to recognise and avoid, I'll teach you.'"

"So, they carry on the road and they pass a cave, and from the cave this horrible growling comes tearing from it." Beren growled deep and low, punctuating the joke before downing and refilling his tumbler.

"The Dunmer panics, and fills his hands with fire, And the Breton stops and shakes his head calmly 'Ah,' he explains 'that's a man eating bear.' And the Dunmer confused, calms at the words and they walk on."

"Next, they walk by a bush, a huge and thick mass of thistles and thorns. From inside it, they hear their horrible roaring, fit to wake the gods themselves." Beren roared in imitation and picked up his refilled tumbler.

"The Dunmer draws his sword and readies himself in alarm. The Breton stops and looks at the bush carefully before walking away. He cheerfully calls over his shoulder 'that's a man eating lion."

"confused and alarmed, the Dunmer hurries after him. Finally, they pass by a deserted campsite and from the tent comes this horrible wet slurping, suckling sound. Slurp! Slurp! Slurp!"

"the Dunmer has been made to look a fool twice now, and is feeling very embarrassed. 'Do you know what animal that is?' the Dunmer asks the Breton", Erik shook his head as Aela caught his eyes, her smile becoming rather fixed at this point.

"Ah, don't worry about that.' Beren says knowledgeably, a happy gleam in his eyes they caught the firelight. 'That's a man eating soup."

Erik grimaced, and laughed at the bad joke, and Aela swotted Berens arm and rolled her eyes. Luckily, they did not have to long endure Beren's sense of humour, as the real entertainment arrived. All eyes turned as the bard was led out, and silence fell upon the Far-famed Hall of Jorrvaskr as they received a master of his own craft no less than they were of theirs. He lent heavily upon a staff as his assistant carefully led him by the hand to the centre of the hall, watched by every warrior that sat on all three sides of him. An unimpressive Nord, stooped and bent by his years, a band of black cloth was bound over his lined face, yet his fame was renowned across Skyrim. Before them stood Braggi Jarls-Skald, hired at a king's ransom to tell Talos's Poetic Edda. A chair was set out behind him, and at his side on a stool sat his aide, who Erik now recognised as the Breton from the Gildergreen inn the night before. On her small lap sat the delicate lute that she would play with skilled fingers to accompany key scenes, small leitmotifs to enliven and inform the character, scene and events.

It was the one small node to modern conventions that the bard would make, as he would rap out the timing with his staff, beating the rhyme and rhythm of his words with the crack of wood upon stood that would be the beating heart of the story, the doom-drum of his tale that would propelled the fates of hero and villain alike. He distained his seat but stood instead, clearing his throat with a small cough before accepting a small sip of ale to wet his throat. Behind their own chairs he heard the patter of footsteps as the servants and other entertainers squeezed into the hall, peaking from the shadows to watch, here and there he could hear their whispered words of complaint as they jockeyed for position and were pushed and shoved from behind by as the smaller forced their way through the crowd. Braggi shook his blind head at their rudeness. He cracked the staff three times upon the stones, silencing those whispering into shame. And then he opened his mouth to begin to recite, watched by every eye in Jorrvaskr.

Erik heard a quiet patter of feet from behind him interrupt the tale, felt something jog his shoulder, and turned angry eyes that barely caught the swish of something. Silver, or maybe steel. An arm, Jester's motley. A knife flashed in the hand, and The Dragonborn flinched as the glint caught his eye. The razor edge of the leaf-shaped blade shone red in the firelight. The blade did not slice across the front of Beren's throat, instead it plunged tip first into the thick corded muscle of him neck, sliding easily up to the crescent guard. Then it punched out, tearing out the throat entirely. Blood misted into the air as the blade flew in an arc from the mortal wound, and Beren gave a wet cough, scarcely above a whisper, as his hands dumbly grasped the spurting wound. Aela turned next to him in shock as the blood started to pump, propelled by that mighty heart to spurt in mortal mockery to the beat of the Skald's staff, spattering her face in a spray of tiny droplets. For a moment, there was silence as eyes slowly slid from the bard to death of The Last Dragonborn.

Then there was uproar. Desperate, he jumped up and the chair thundered down onto the ground behind him. The capering cackling little Imperial in his motley held the dripping blade in his hand, and Erik lunged for him with both hands. Screams, yells, shouts filled the hall as guests and servants reacted, their minds catching up to the horror their eyes reported. The press of servants behind the man impeded his escape, and as he spun on his heel slashing his knife at servants, wounding with every stroke Erik caught the trailing arm with his own desperate reaching hands. He wrenched the man back, hanging onto his arm, determined, and unarmed he bit deep into the flesh of his forearm, just above the wrist. Cackling to himself, the assassin turned back like lighting. Erik felt a blow like a hammer on his chest, several blows. Wriggling like an eel, the man slipped from his weak grasp and disappeared into the panicking crowd. Confused, he fell.

He landed badly, on his side and he curled up. Tears filled his eyes. His chest was icy fire. He couldn't breathe. Every breath he took whistled in agony, wheezed out wet. His lungs weren't working, he couldn't get enough air. There was water in his throat. Lying on the floor he could see nothing but table legs and panicking feet. Someone kicked him as they ran past and cursed him for a bastard. He didn't deserve to be forgotten like this and he tried to weakly screamed for help, but merely coughed. He turned his head, to call out, to shout for help.

The Dragonborn lay on the ground next to him, his dull eyes gazing at him, glazing over. He blinked in confusion. Aela knelt over him, her feasting finery stained with her husbands' blood. She gripped his limp hand in her white knuckles as tears fell. She drew rapid and deep breaths, shaking in disbelief eyes wide in shock and open mouthed as she hyperventilated, panicking. The man was futilely pressing a bandage to the wound, so deep he could see the bone amidst the ruined gristle and tissue. The blood no longer spurted in time to his heart, but oozed slowly, draining from Beren's body. Erik looked up to Aela as the man adjusted his grip, checked Berens eyes and shook his head.

Aela eyes bulged, and her chest rose as she drew air in a never-ending breath that seemed to suck in all the world's air, her hands were drawn up before her face, shaking claws. And then she screamed, long and terrible, her voice cracked and it ended with a sobbing rush. She pushed the man away savagely, bent and held the corpse of her husband to her breast, rocking it like a child as tears flowed down her face. burying her cries in her husband's blonde hair, screaming and shaking. Shaking him like a sleeper, that could be roused by her rage, even as her impotence fuelled her screams. Beren's limp body twisted and twitched in his wife's grip, but did not wake.

The man spotted him, and pushed towards him, he yelled something, but there was so much noise and yelling now Erik couldn't hear it. The pain spread in waves through his body, unending, unendurable, in time to his pounding heart the fed the growing puddle beneath him. The man rushed to his side, and turned him onto his back. Erik coughed, and something leapt from his throat, landing wet on his face. The man worked quickly, pulling his tunic apart with powerful strokes of his hands to bear his chest, and then seemed to hesitate for a second. Erik raised his head with flagging strength to look down on his chest. Every breath he took in bubbled out his chest from what seemed like half a dozen holes, where blood ran like rivers even as the man tried to mop it away, tried to find his wounds. Every wheeze brought up bloody spittle that popped and splattered his face like rain, or bubbled up from the rents in his body. He struggled, tried to push the man away.

The man wrenched him back, and suddenly one of the companions was there, lying on his legs to hold him flat, another two holding his arms done. They mopped up the blood with table clothes and napkins, trying to find his stab wounds which slowly oozed bubbled blood. Hands covered them, but still the blood bubbled up from between their fingers.

All the voices sounded so faint. Who were these people, who pushed down on his chest and whispered into his ear? Why couldn't he hear them? Why couldn't they warm him by the fire? He felt cold. He felt bad for how he thought of his father, how he treated his father. He wished he could have been a better son. He wished he could apologise, that he would hold him one last time, hug him. He couldn't remember the last time his father held him, told him he loved him. Where was he? Why wasn't his mother here? His brothers and sisters?

He rested his head on the stones wet with his life's blood. He lacked the strength to hold it up. The floor was so comfortable here, now. He could not see, could not think, and when his last breath left him, could not feel.

* * *

**Author's Note**

Sorry for the delay in publishing this month's chapter- the power went down yesterday and the internet here didn't get working until lunch time today. This gave me a bit of extra time to titillate this 18,000-word monstrosity. I suspect if I never re-write this story, I would split this chapter into two parts to make it more manageable, but that can be a post-completion exercise. Next chapter will hopefully be out at the first of next month, so long as the internet doesn't pile in again, or someone doesn't stage an intervention into my hobby.

**Responses to reviews**

Hey Greywolf93, thanks very much for the review.

Why did I kill Beren off? because that's been finished ever since Aldiun was killed. The first problem I had when I sat down to start writing this was how to generate the tension needed to propel the plot. Beren is so powerful (especially with the souped up, lore consistent shouts) that realistically nothing could ever be seen as a threat to him. Also given his previous enemies- Harkon, Miraak and Aldiun, it's difficult to present 'Tim the Enchanter' as being anywhere near his level or in any way a threat. Finally, given his god-tier levels of plot armour, on a meta level we always know he was going to come out on top of any fight.

On a meta level, the conventions of fan-fiction are to retell the plot in your own words, rather than to develop the plot from the end point to consider the consequences of the main events of the storyline. Given how the LDB often thinks he can get away with stupid actions because he's 'the chosen one,' what happens to him now the dragons are gone, and his prophecy is fulfilled? The threats he dealt with were generally black-swan 'sealed evil in a can' events against which the entire world could rally and they were happy for him to do so as it cost them nothing. When he started interfering in more conventional enemies, then all those players took interest, some as allies, some as enemies and it was only a matter of time before Beren realised the same thing. So they acted.

So therefore, I felt that I had solid reasons to kill him off. It also provoked more interesting questions- everyone in Skyrim has gotten used to having him around as a walking 'I win' button. Remove that and now they all have to start finding their own solutions. Serana has been used him as a cloak for her own vampirism, now people are going to start questioning why a young woman with a dark and mysterious past is so exceptionally magically powerful. Elisif's been using him as a crutch, building up a favourite in the hopes that she can ride his coat tails to the throne, now she needs to make a power based like any other queen. Finally, Beric's been using him as an excuse, drifting through life. You can be sure he's going to be motivated by the fact that life is short and a very strong need for revenge. Now the dragons are gone this story is going to start moving from High fantasy to a more low fantasy one, where the fantastical fades and we are left with the memories of an age of heroes, while what heroes of that age bitch and fight amidst the achievements of a greater man. For these reasons Beren was never a POV character, and it was never Beren's story- it's Beric's, Serana's, Elisif's and possibility a few others.

Why did I kill Erik? - for similar reasons- innocence and likeability are fairly strong plot armour as well as rashness and youth. it also helps support one of the other themes I'm trying to work with- collateral damage onto innocents as a result of the character's actions, and how they will try and rationalise that. Also, because again on a meta-level we all know that fan-fiction never kills of POV characters, and that the youthful male stand-in for our readers will survive all the way through.

Or at least, that was the intention. I have always been up front that this is the first story I wrote, and I've tried to foreshadow it as much as possible (like with chapter 1 and Beren asking Erik 'how much time do you think we have?'), and write for theme and as a consequence to action and characterisation, rather for the childish reason of 'subverting expectations.' Using the death of the LDB as the inciting incident for my story would help driven narrative, theme and characterisation for realistic, understandable reasons which would not be possible or as interesting if he remained alive.

Hey HermitWitch, thanks for your review

Thanks very much for all your praise! I was worried how this chapter was going to be received. As I said if I ever come back and re-write this story then I suspect I'll cut the first half of this chapter off (the inspection, Beren training, the pub) and fit it in between chapters 2 & 3 where it won't affect the political flow of the story.

I'm glad that your enjoyed Beren's mix of humour and emotionality. I wanted my dragonborn to be more confident and assured in his role, given he's accomplished everything he had to do and therefore was unlikely to be as angst-ridden about his role. Being able to take a less serious side allows him to reassure and support some very scared people, and also helps separate his easy-going nature from Beric's quiet seriousness where his humour is more dead-pan and his anger is expressed in a more passive-aggressive style. This temperament also wrong-foots a lot of the more pompous people (like Erik, the Grey-Manes and the Battle-borns) for whom dealing with the LDB is a very big deal, and are wrong-footed when all they get is dad jokes and sudden LOUD NOISES.

As for the emotional weight, I'm relieved that in the midst of all the crowds and people milling around, that central relationship of Beren/Erik/Aela worked. Poor Aela, she and Beren had a very loving relationship which they pursued in spite of arguably better matches (or at least more politically advantageous ones) and some resistance inside the companions too.

Now Aela is arguably a natural successor to the role of Harbinger, and will obviously want revenge, but has to deal with the fact that as she's pregnant she's not going to be the one to go chasing it. However, given she is a werewolf and Beren moved them away from that there is going to be resistance to her leadership, as well as Vignar Grey-Mane and his faction obviously not being particularly keen on the Stone-Striders at this time. She could look outside The Companions, but her and Serana hate each other, Beric isn't keen on her, Durag is a nerd and she lacks the political skills at the moment.

Erik unfortunately is dead, but if it makes you feel better then at least he got what he wanted from life. He died a hero side by side with the Dragonborn, and will be remembered in songs for all time (or hopefully at least 4,000 years).

Next month I'm planning on a chapter from Elisif's point of view. Though given how slow news travels its going to take a while for new of Beren's death to arrive….


	6. Chapter 6: No News from Whiterun

**Chapter 6: No news from Whiterun**

**Elisif I**

The gentle murmur of tired voices that ebbed and flowed over the threshold from the small audience chamber behind her was abruptly cut out as the oak double doors slammed shut. Her heels clacked on the tiled floor loudly in the sudden still silence as she walked between shafts of cold light thrown by an autumn evening's sun that streamed in golden bars through the cloister's windows. She ignored the view they offered over the Blue Palace's central courtyard gardens, and instead ducked halfway down the covered cloister's length into a small robing room on the left, closing the door behind her with a soft click. Elisif was relieved to see it was empty for now. She groaned quietly as she removed the Jagged Crown from her head, setting its ungainly weight down carefully on a side table before collapsing into a high backed chair where she closed her eyes and gently rubbed her temples with the tips of her fingers in a fruitless attempt to alleviate the pain that pulsed through her head behind her eyelids, the curse of sleepless nights. Legend said that the crown contained the prior knowledge of Skyrim's rulers, who whispered the collected wisdom of centuries from dozens of High Kings to their successors. She wished it was true, for she had need of that wisdom now. The worries which she had felt as Jarl had mellowed with experience and confidence, but the stresses of ruling as Skyrim's High Queen left her still feeling as overwhelmed as she had initially, a little more than two long years ago.

Meeting with the poorest of her people always felt her feeling humbled and exhausted, but with a renewed sense of confidence in her abilities. Many of them faced short lives marked by hard work and riven by grinding poverty, and came to her with a sense of burning injustice and absolute trust in her ability to help them. Trust that was frequently rewarded. Their problems were often small and localised- a thief here, an embezzling corrupt official or a bandit hide-out spotted, and their solutions simple- a reward promised and posters printed, an investigation or trial organised, and a detachment of guardsmen dispatched, occasionally reinforced by a leavening of her household knights. In doing so she had learnt the business of government from the ground up, and kept her finger on the pulse of her city and her hold. She had learnt through trial and error when to act and when to watch. When to stand by and accept the limits of her powers and authority, and when not, with the courage needed to defend to the desperate, the poor and the starving. Any who wished to see her could have a chance of doing so, and she curbed the worst excesses of behaviour from the highest of the Solitude's nobility to the lowest of its citizens. For all that her advisors petitioned Henrietta to remove the open audiences as they filled her hours with matters of state, she insisted she still kept her Middas afternoon open audiences. Letting any and all see her, reminding all that nothing happened in her city or her hold which she did not, sooner or later, hear of.

Despite her pride at how she had improved in her governance of her city and her hold, she felt a measure of guilt at how she lately allowed these little problems to occupy her time as she hid from the bigger issues. She was sure that Henrietta would politely but firmly remind her of her lapse in keeping to the carefully arranged schedule she had worked out. A schedule under every increasing strain as the previously seen councillors, thanes, guard and legion officers now rubbed shoulders with petitioners and diplomats who arrived every day in ever increasing numbers, dining at her expense and demanding precious hours of her time for themselves. She knew that in the near future ambitious suitors would likely come flocking now that victory had arrived far ahead of time, with renewed vows of friendship and goodwill from rulers of foreign lands previously cold and unknown to them. It was these more complex and alien problems which intimidated her, and to which she still struggled for a solution. It was perhaps a small sign of the hard-won respect she had earnt that previously her advisors had merely presented their solutions before her already written, limiting her input to a seal and signature. Now they expected her to create one for them.

The problems she faced as High Queen for Skyrim were much the same as those she faced as Jarl of her hold, simply magnified beyond her means of her divided and war-torn country to solve. Famine threatened many, as the price of food rose and was yet to spike despite the harvest season normally causing prices to drop with a glut on the market.

This was especially true in the former Stormcloak holds, where fields had been torched and barns torn down, either as part of the Stormcloaks scorched earth tactics to deny the conquering Imperial armies food, or else to provide firewood and materials for trench lines, battering rams and siege towers. General Tullius had seemed almost proud in his last report of the siege that not a single tree or cottage stood within twenty miles of Windhelm, so thorough had been the search. Finally, even in the imperial holds there was little food or winter fuel to spare and taxes remained high. Much of her country was inclined to allow the Stormcloaks to starve over the winter and coming year, a general and indiscriminate form of revenge that was seen as fitting compensation for their crimes by her exhausted people, brutalised into callousness towards their own countrymen by the civil war. Piracy and banditry threatened the roads as the demobbed, the desperate and the homeless turned to their swords for food. And with the roads ruined and watched by bandits and the seas haunted by former fishermen and traders now turned pirates and raiders, there was precious little coin to solve these issues as merchants only moved in the company of military patrols, while the large trader caravans had avoided the province altogether since the start of the civil war.

She got up, frustration lending energy that burnt the exhaustion from her weary limbs as she paced and turned on her heel, back and forth, back and forth. Desperate thoughts filled her head as she swore by Stendarr for wisdom and guidance. She could peg the price of grain, search and seize illegal stockpiles or smuggled shipments, and organise relief convoys and distribution points, while dispatching punitive expeditions to bring the bandits to justice. But she needed ready coin, military muscle and political leverage to persuade, to charm, to compel, to push and to punish beyond what she already had.

There was the newly returned legion in Solitude, the 8th Nord, but that fell under General Tullius's command for the moment, leaving her with Solitude's four thousand strong force of militia and town guards and the three hundred knights of her household, along with the smaller garrisons of Dragonbridge, Lighthouse point, Robber's Gorge and the other towns of her hold, all of whom were needed to maintain the peace and rule of law in her own lands. She would need ready coin too- seizing grain at a set price would be controversial, but a Nord trusts in silver and gold in their hand, and paying up front would bring criticism to a murmur. Yet her depleted treasury would not support such an act.

The Imperials were resurgent in Skyrim, and her enemies cowed and hidden for now, but they would leave in the spring, and to push a recalcitrant Jarl back into line in required troops and money of her own. An army of her own, large enough to ensure that the furthest Jarls would understand the nature of the world, with popular and respected commanders and backed by ready coin. Perhaps she could raise a new legion from amongst her new-found admirers, she thought with a bitter grin.

And yet, there was still no news from Whiterun.

She went over the figures in her head, fretting over the maths of it as the days slid by at a glacial pace. Today was Middas the 11th of Hearthfire. She had sent the letter on the 20th of Last Seed, four weeks ago, or there abouts. Three weeks was the normal travel time to Whiterun, and another three weeks back. At least until winter set in, and the snows buried skyrim's war-wrecked roads and froze her rivers solid. Her letter must have arrived sometime last week, all things going well. It would be at least another two weeks journey, probably three and maybe four if they were delayed in Whiterun or bad weather on the road before they returned. There were magical means of communication of course, conjurors and the like could talk instantly across huge province spanning-distances, but they were expensive, untrustworthy and rare. Only the highest ranks of the Thalmor or the Elder Council could afford to keep such skilled mages permanently on their staff. And with the present popularity (or lack thereof, she corrected herself) of mages in Skyrim, such skilled magic users could not be found anywhere in her province, to the best of her knowledge. Nor she would risk the infamy of having such individuals in her court after Sybille.

A gentle rap echoed three times from the door. She commanded them to enter as she steeled herself, putting on her public face. She picked up the heavy weight of the iron and dragonbone crown, and returned it to her head, seating the jagged teeth of its maw around her aching head still running over with the list of problems that assailed her kingdom. Thane Henriette Burghley entered, with hard brown eyes and her brunette hair pulled back into a tight bun as she dipped a neat curtesy with Breton elegance, one hand on her long skirts and the other clutching a large leather-bound documents wallet, a more intimate companion to her than any husband. Her Housecarl Bolgeir Bearclaw skulked in behind her shutting the door.

"Your Majesty, a private supper will be laid out in your parlour, following which we can review the upcoming few week's schedule- your Morndas meeting with the council and discussions of your address from the throne to the new Potentate's deputation."

She nodded and closed her eyes for a moment, preparing herself for the ordeal that would follow. A Queen had to be seen to be believed, and she supressed the exhaustion she felt deep within her, putting on her public face for the court in one last performance for the day. Opening her eyes with a slow breath, she nodded. She swept out the robing room and down the corridor towards the double oak doors which marked the end of the western wing and beyond the forecourt, great hall and throne room. The noise increased with every step, a boisterous hub-bub of voices. Dinner would have been served to much of the court by now, and people would have spilled out from the dining hall into the forecourt and the Great Hall right up to the double staircase to throne room. She could hear light music through the heavy wood. All she had to do was cross the ground floor, go up the double staircases, and then across to the corridor that lead to her private apartments.

She can come to think of being Jarl and then High Queen as arriving as a traveller in a distant land, and walking the markets of some distant city for the first time, like the disguised prince Alahir wandering in the Grand Bazaar of Sentinel in _The Romance of Princess Anora_. All around her simpered nobles and courtiers like the buzzing crowd of merchants of that story, talking with their hands and making extravagant promises as they offered their wares, promising 'the best of deals for you, my friend' yet in truth they would have the dress off her back without a moment's thought if she so let them. She must be a discerning buyer, guarding her purse carefully, haggling for the best price and knowing when to walk away, and when to deal. She also knew that many a fool was ripped off by those who crowed the loudest for attention, accosting the first into the marketplace when the true value often lay waiting to be explored and discovered beyond, the quiet confidence of those merchants letting their properties value speak for itself, while the loud insecurity of the street hawker pushed their way to the front desperate for a quick deal before the buyer could look over the goods to closely. The doors chased open before her, and the crowded room surged at her arrival.

At her entrance the crowd rippled around her as heard turned and whispered her arrival. They stood respectfully and bowed or curtsied as she swept across the floor, the room light and airy from the high windows that surrounded the high dome far above them. The pleasant chatter quickly resumed, and the soft music of flutes and drums filled the air as a troop of High Rock minstrels played quietly from a corner.

"Your Majesty, will you honour me with a stroll through the gardens this fine evening?"

The foreign lilt to the accent made her pause. She turned and was surprised to see that a sumptuously dressed Breton had asked, dropping into an elaborate bow before her. He was a slender middle-aged man. Auburn haired, with hard brown eyes and an aquiline nose. He could have been a good-looking man twenty or so years ago, looks now spoilt by a deep scar from an arrow wound under his right eye and the unfashionable pudding bowl haircut he sported. Perhaps because of this his clothes were of the finest make. His hose and doublet were cut from the finest woollen cloth dyed a brilliant azure and trimmed with furs of whitest sable. Presumably well-chosen to emphasis the colours of his house. His neck and fingers were heavy with bejewelled rings and an ornately worked necklace of interlinked serpents with ruby claws and eyes. A matching belt sat on his waist. She had known him by reputation since childhood, and his name swam instantly into her mind as she carefully concealed her surprise at his arrival, and a murmur of whispers reached her ears as the court carefully pretended not to watch.

"I'm sorry Duke Tristaine, perhaps another time. You should consider speaking with my private secretary about such matters, she will ensure they are given the time they deserve."

"But you are the Queen, surely it is for you to decide what to do with your time, and your servants to comply."

"Of course, and I have decided that if is for Henrietta to manage my time. You understand the needs for the daily war with administration to come before pleasure, being well versed in the art from your many battles. Not that it is for me to remind as honourable a knight as you of such duties."

"Am I to understand that we are on such a campaign, or on manoeuvres ma'am?"

"Am I to understand you are not?" she dropped her voice in a breathy whisper just loud enough for them to hear, eyebrow raised in mock reproof. He gave a crooked grin and she swept off, taking a care to call over her shoulder to him, as though in afterthought

"My Secretary, my Duke."

She swept onwards, until a man she had never seen in her court stepped Infront of her. He was covered from neck to ankle in loose flowing robes of vibrant green and orange silks, while pointed boots, highly polished in a style she had never seen before scuffed the floor as he bowed, little strings of silver bells tinkling merrily from the trim of his robes as he moved. What little skin she could see was tanned from the sun of his homeland, and his head and brow were covered with a loosely fitted turban or some such similar cap. Around him the air was filled with scent, a strong-smelling cologne that put her in mind of citrus and summer fruits. He kept his eyes fixed to the ground, staying deep in his bow.

"Oh, Majestic One, I have travelled far and wide and never seen a more beautiful city, nor one whose perfection of its arts was fit to match the beauty of its ruler." Elisif felt a little blush warm her cheeks at this over-abundance of praise, and hoped it came from a careful schooling in the courtly poetry of the Redguards.

"Do rise, young man. I don't believe I have seen you in my court before." He rose gracefully, and looked over his youthful features. His beard and moustaches were patchy, and she could make out pimples hidden amidst and around those finely oiled hairs.

"May I present his Royal Highness, Prince Casimir from Sentinel," The man to his back and right put in, a hard, flint eyed man with a salt-and-pepper beard perhaps almost three times his prince's age. Elisif nodded, looking the prince over carefully. Sentinel was Forebear city on the other side of the Iliac bay from High Rock, and a prime trading partner, though far from Skyrim and exposed as the raid upon that fine city by Thalmor agents had shown. To her mind, there was perhaps a whiff of desperation amidst this adolescent's perfume.

"And what was it exactly that caught your eye upon your arrival?"

"Why maybe it was the towering Great Temple to the Divines, which so remind me of the mountains of this fine land as the towers sough to reach to the very heavens themselves. Or else the Dome of this fine palace which so dominates the city which now stands above our heads, architecture so welcome and familiar in such lands far from my home."

"I have heard of the domes of your own country and your fair city, repaired and resplendent as never before. I am glad to hear that our own example makes you feel at home."

"Perhaps your Magnificence could spare the time to tutor me on the divines of your fine country, there are many of your countrymen in my lands now who hold to your gods, and I would wish to hear from a woman of your knowledge and experience how best to accommodate the faith of those newly arrived."

She blinked over the audacity of the man to remind her of the countless Stormcloak deserters and Talos worshippers that had slipped over the borders of Skyrim into Hammerfell, Orsinium and High Rock. Was it inexperience on his part? Arrogance? A deliberately veiled threat? His eyes were guileless amidst his pimped face, darting around the room and unable to look her in the eye for more than a few second. inexperienced then, or just an idiot. Behind his back the face of the man with the salt and pepper beard became rather fixed. Clearly, he was used to these little indiscretions. She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Alas, my schedule is filled for the coming days, though I shall be visiting the Great Temple of the Divines myself soon enough. You could accompany me then, and tell me what you have learnt of my people and their faith since our last meeting."

"Your Magnificence is generous, perhaps you would do me the honour of joining me for lunch afterwards."

"Unfortunately, I cannot, the business of state demands my attention, or so my advisors tell me." She shrugged and theatrically sighed as she had seen so many other spendthrift nobles do. He grinned back and bowed quickly as she took her leave. Underneath her good humour was flagging now, and she moved quickly, determined not to be ambushed again as Henrietta and Bolgeir took up their stations to her left and right. The crowd dutifully parted before her, perhaps sensing her mood and pushed back by the formation of grim-faced advisors at both sides. Not to be dissuaded, suddenly a grinning Nord with mercenary blue eyes and dirty brown hair that fell in tangles to partially hide a large golden earing strode forwards and dropped into an elaborate bow. She attempted to sidestep him with a curt nod of acknowledgement, but then he addressed her directly as he stood, resting his hands on his hips.

"Majesty, forgive my intrusion, but I could not stand by as a faithful Nord in your service without offering my aide. Perhaps you would appreciate some rest after you have received our foreign friends and settled the affairs of state? The Bard's College Theatre Royal is hosting a production of _The Tragedy of King Olaf_, I have a private box that is both large and comfortable and would be honoured if you would join me."

She gave him an appraising look, unimpressed at his intercession. She had seen him skirt around her court once or twice before the last few days, while news had come to her of setting the court to twitter at his bizarre and outlandish dress, one of the many privateers that now crowded port, tavern and prison and now seemed to be bent on beating down the very gates of her own palace. He looked a man so in love with his own image of himself that he had no affection to spare for any another soul. A bejewelled scimitar that sat low on his hip alongside a dirk and a number of daggers thrust into a sash belted around his waist, while from one ear dangled a golden earing like that of the Khajiit, that famously ostentatious moustache and an elegantly trimmed beard in the Hammerfell style. She turned to Henrietta, feeling waspish. Who had dared to bring a man who must be a privateer at best and a pirate at worst to her court, filled as it was with Redguards and Bretons?

"Who is this man?" she asked, confused and gesturing towards him.

Thane Erikur strode forwards hurriedly.

"Ahh…. your majesty. Please allow me to introduce Leif Wind-Walker." He announced in an oily voice and with a neat bow, rising gently he tapped Leif on the back, who dutifully scuttled back a foot or two.

"Ahh" she said raising and eyebrow. She was taken aback and surprised to see him so publicly attempt to catch her attention at court. So, this was Leif Wind-Walker, a man who fancied himself half an admiral, from that ancient but long-impoverished noble line of Eastmarch nobility.

"I had no idea you were a man of culture."

"I am a man of the times your majesty." He shrugged broadly

"Can you read the times well then Leif?"

"Like the tides themselves."

"I fear for your ships then, if you always make your introductions at another's dinner time." she smacked his hand lightly with hers to lessen blow, but he still flinched at her words, and bowed once more.

"I apologise for my impenitence your Majesty." She nodded, and left him behind in her wake.

Her little entourage was not interrupted again, allowing her to reach the sanctuary of her private apartments, where no more foreign dignitaries waited in ambush. The room gave off a grand, slightly austere air. Elaborately worked ebony sconces on pearl white walls and tiled floors of black and white tiles that were far too cold for naked toes. Splashes of colour came from red curtains, rugs, bed clothes and tapestries. A jumble of furniture sat in the room, dwarfed by its setting.

The centre of the back wall of the room was dominated by a large double bed of black wood dressed in cream and crimson silken sheets imported from Cyrodiil. Opposite from a fireplace large enough for her to stand up in made of black Eastmarch granite where a fire fought the room's evening chill while next to it an exquisite dwemer towerclock whirled and chimed seven. A decorated fire screen protected a pair of footstools and a large carpet imported from Elsweyr. The carpet specially as a gift from the mane to the High Kings of Skyrim had been made centuries before and now faded, though far to storied to simply throw away, and far to elaborate to be repaired. A sumptuous dressing table stood between a pair of closets against the right wall. Gilded and with a large mirror, it table space was dominated by endless little pots of cosmetics and a silver water jug and a pair of glass tumblers. In the centre of the room a large desk across which a pair of comfortable arms chairs faced each other. To the right a dressing screen offered modesty, while the wall was pierced by large leaded windows which caught the morning light and a small private balcony, with spectacular views over the Sea of Ghosts.

With thanks, she Bolgeir she dismissed for the night, and he disappeared quickly with a clatter, relieved at the opportunity to remove his heavy nordic plate. Henrietta waited quietly in the evening shadows of her bedroom as Elisif removed the crown once more, along with her jewellery, less the Ring of State. She then shooed her ladies' maids away for a moment. She paced up and down on the ancient Elsweyr carpet, feeling vaguely guilty as she walked a grove into it as she worried over the problems tumbling through her head. She turned back to her private secretary, questions bubbling over. She had been expecting more time, and some warning.

"When did Leif arrive?"

"A week ago, but he has not attended court until today. I am told he is staying at the house of Thane Erikur for the foreseeable future."

"Prince Casimir?"

"Sailed into port very early this morning and came to the palace this morning once unloaded. He's been granted private apartments in the Palace; it would be unfit for him to be accommodated elsewhere. Falk met and welcomed him on your behalf and explained your absence. The Prince behaved rather petulantly at not being greeted in a manner appropriate to his rank, though he declined to visit your open audience himself." Perhaps if he had warned them, they could have prepared a suitable arrival for him.

"And the Duke-accommodated likewise?"

"Yes ma'am. Rode in via the Dragonbridge Road. He's an old warhorse and took the news of your absence bluffly, like a soldier should. He even apologised for not sending word of his pending arrival. They will be formally greeted before the throne next week, bringing vows of friendship and congratulations of your victory from their rulers."

She grew silent again for a moment. The room was not quiet, filled as it was with the soft rustle of the lady's maids' dresses as they locked away her jewellery. The pad of servant's footfalls as they carried tapers, lighting flickering candles in the wall sconces and the crackle of the fire in the grate against the evening cold.

"It would seem the fruits of victory are yet to appear." Elisif forced a bitter laugh.

"Ma'am?" Henrietta looked curiously at her.

"Victory has so far brought me a penniless Duke, an overly-ambitious privateer and a pimpled prince. A disappointing harvest compared to what we wished."

"I don't think we should be so quick to mistake windfall for the autumn harvest." Henrietta replied evenly.

"Then let us hope that the Dragonborn replies soon." She said, tiring of games and metaphors.

"Indeed" came Henrietta's clipped reply, which another might have mistaken as brusque insolence but she had come to recognise as earnest agreement. She turned to the meal that was being laid out on her desk, a tidy stack of reports and councillor papers next to it for her attention.

She shared a private supper with Henrietta as she sought to stretch out hours before her nightly purgatory. It was simple meal that evening for a Queen and her closest confidant and councillor. Roast highland beef with High Rock mustard, served with roasted potatoes, carrots and leeks in a rich ale gravy, without accompanying starters or deserts. Both drank a goblet apiece of warm spiced wine to ward against the chill, which they cupped in their hands as the steam rouse before their tired faces as they sat on the low footstools before the crackling fire. The warmth flowed through to their fingers and toes with each sip, and the rich taste lingered on the tongue. Exhausted by the endless business of the day, by mutual unspoken consent they talked of inconsequential light matters of palace gossip and other such trivial matter. Finally, yawning, Henrietta left for her apartments, and Elisif was dressed for bed, diving gratefully between the warm silken sheet to nestle against a feather pillow, where she waited, anxious for sleep try and claim her and damning the first day, nearly a week ago when the screams had first haunted the shadows of her mind in the lonely darkness of the night.

* * *

Elisif tossed and turned with sleepless frustration as the late hours of the night of the 7th of Last Seed slowly turned into the early hours of the morning of the 8th, uneasy and trapped between the sheets. It was dark and lonely in the double bed. Quiet for now with a sardonic stillness that only served to unnerve her. The only sound the pounding of her heart in her ears and the soft tick-toking of the Dwemer towerclock that only seemed to be there to mock her with arithmetic as it counted down the sleepless hours until dawn. The fire had been banked, and the heavy curtains drawn, the only light glowing embers in the grate and the thin sliver that shone through under her door, occasionally wavering as the sentry outside shifted on their feet or marched their patrol along the corridor. Whoever it was, they were unalarmed and had clearly heard nothing, and she did not want to ask him in panic, or else rumours would spread that the High Queen was hearing odd things. The room felt safe, cosy, the High Queen's private apartments a warm but slightly airless den of comfort. Yet it did not give her peace this night. So far, her few precious hours of rest had yielded none, for a persistent pressure filled her mind just as it seemed ready to drift away, filling her with nervous energy that left her shaking until it burst like the whistle of a boiling kettle.

Sybille Stentor's pyre-driven screams echoed in her mind like a Banshee's howl upon the moors.

A flame glowed in the dark as she lit a candle with the touch of a magical firestick from the bedside table. Kicking free of the bedclothes that entangled her legs, she wrapped herself in a silken dressing gown richly embroidered in the Akaviri style, tied it tight about her waist and moved to her dressing table where a jug of cool water and a pair of tumblers sat next to the mirror. Her face swam in its silvery cold reflection, cast by flickering candlelight as with trembling hands she filled the tumbler and downed it, then poured and drank another.

She collapsed into the chair, placing the tumbler and candle down before she could drop them by accident. She wiped sweat from her face, and clasped her arms with her hands, taking deep steadying breaths as she tried to regain control of her trembling limbs. She woke sometimes wake at night, occasionally twice or three times in the night. It was not nightmares that haunted her sleep but stress, cursing her with fitful sleep as she was torn back into the waking world at odd hours, her head overrunning with new ideas and solutions to the problems of the day. She kept a notebook and pencil by her bedside to deal with the torrent of ideas that came to her by night. She often deciphered her tired scrawls by dawn's light as part of her morning routine, like some strange form of augury or divination, she though with a wry sense of humour that did not touch her face. This was different. An echo, not of the past, but from the present. Not a dream or a nightmare as it intruded from the corners of her waking mind, keeping her from sleep where such visions gathered. Why did it prevent her sleep now?

Stentor was dead. Stentor was long dead. She repeated to herself. She could remember when she had first taken power nearly two years ago, her court dress still splattered with the blood of her husband as the High priest of the Great Temple to the Divines stuttered over his lines in shock and the ashamed and grieving court acclaimed her Jarl. Then it had been the terrible shout of Ulfric that had ripped her husband apart that had echoed in her nightmares. That voice had faded quickly with time, replaced by another. The terrible screams of Stentor as her body turned to ash at the merest kiss of flame, lashed to her stake by blessed silver chains that burnt her skin with red weals at the slightest touch even through her tar-soaked clothes.

Until that moment, Stentor had screamed of betrayal, of jealous lies and ill-willed whisperers and malicious gossipers, and there had been a number who had believed her. Until all had seen the ivory of her fangs and the red of her eyes as her magics were stripped away and the truth laid bare, first in the prison cell by the touch of a paladin of Stendarr, and again in the execution yard by that blessed silver chain. It had been Elisif, and her trust in her newly found private secretary that had been vindicated, their reputations made by their actions and fired in the ashes of that pyre. Yet just as they had praised her for her actions, they had spoken of those screams, and the blood chilling curses that she had uttered, never to be repeated on her orders, first as Jarl and now as High Queen. Now just the barest memory of them raised a chill on the back of her neck and had prevented her from her rest.

Yet in the empty void of emotions that had been left after being snatched repeatedly from her sleep now rage filled Elisif at the foolishness of a court that had thought her a fool. At her fool husband, and his councillors. At the sheer sense of betrayal and vulnerability that still raised the goosebumps. Falk, Erikur, Bryling, and a number of others had through their wisdom argued and convinced themselves of the benefit of turning their eyes and looking the other way. Some were guilty by opportunity she was sure, offing troublesome meddlers in their private business, others by collusion, convincing themselves that the ends justified the means, and that the great good demanded a little evil. finally, some by passivity, too afraid to ask, suspicious in a quiet manner, or even knowing and yet doing nothing, fearing for the damage of their own reputation, and holding their name higher than the lives of those below them.

She herself had been naïve in her association with that vampire just as she had been with all her advisors in the early weeks of her reign as Jarl. Friendly and unguarded in a way that had sent her skin crawling as she had signed off staggering sums to siphoned into Sybille's private purse, receiving endless assurances of the safety of her city in return. She had through she was doing the right thing, trusting in the proverb 'forewarned is forearmed' and to her magical advisor. A woman of such uncanny skill with magic that like the greatest of the Altmer and Dunmer mages she had stretched her life out many times its natural course, even for a Breton. It had been her and Henrietta, untainted by such issues who had ended it. Henrietta had a nose like a bloodhound for gossip, and a fierce intelligence to use such knowledge to best effect. Meanwhile she had always possessed a humility to take advice, but had also discovered a courage within herself to question established logic and to take action, and when Henrietta had proven the complicity of her advisors, she overturned their advice, and burnt Sybille alive for her crimes.

Her shaking calmed, but still filled with restless energy she stood. Gripping the edges of the dresser with her hands as she started at herself in the mirror. Her brow shone with sweat, he lank hair like red gold untidily framed her fair face where her tired eyes stood out, blue-green, her pale face mocking her with its pallid completion. Those long unguarded hours she had spent alone with Sybille tortured her now.

Elisif loosened the silken robe over her nightshift and looked carefully at her long swan neck in the mirror. There were no scars there that she could see, but still her skin crawled at the betrayal and vulnerability of her flesh, and she continued searching her sweat-sheened skin. Searching the expanse of exposed white flesh of her chest from her collar bones and down to her breasts that shook, rose and felt with uneasy breaths, concealing the thumping of her human heart that lay beneath them. She did not know if she was looking for proof, and she did not feel relieved when she did not find it. She stopped, and returned he hands to gripping the dresser as she studied her face in the mirror. She fancied she could see her pulse beating in the veins of her neck, propelled by the fear that she now felt that set her hair on edge and her palms sweating. Uneasily she raised her hands and covered her neck protectively, breaking away contact with her vampire-like reflection and turning away, unable to bear her gaze any longer. What had Stentor had in mind for her?

To enthral her and force her to serve as the true puppet queen some had alleged until the conquest of her city as an incompetent bungler of the defence? Then kept alive as a jester or some trophy of Harkon's conquest? A queen as jester, kept in a cage with the motley to match? Or perhaps to throw her with her people to be used as blood cattle, perhaps served up upon her own tables at the victory feast as Harkon's personal dish? Some had whispered that the Dread lord would have taken her as a bride, transforming her into a vampiress to participate in her fair city's demise as she devoured her own devoted people. To then watch from the side-lines as another ruled her fallen city throughout the night, until daylight forced her into his embrace. To be raped by that twisted creature through day's long shadows until the moons light's dawning.

Would she have been brave enough to stand, sword in hand? To die before her throne as her previous husband Torygg had, utterly untrained in the arts of war? Or would she have run and hidden from her fate until pulled from her hidey-hole? Perhaps she would have thrown herself from her balcony in a last act of defiance? Or, worst of all, would she have meekly accepted and surrendered to her fate to protect her life and position like her councillors had done with Sybille? She shuddered, cursing how her mind delighted in this savage torture this night.

She remembered well how Sybille had thrown her weight around in her court in those chaotic early days. Dominating them all through fear and blackmail, competence and convenience. How Sybille had lectured her on her Queenly duties at any opportunity-alone, in council and in court-and she had accepted without question her authority and knowledge to do so, for compared to her advisors, what did she know? When Beric had arrived at one Middas afternoon, she had seen the opportunity to protect her people and make a new ally, and made the choice to support and deal with him. Of her advisors Henrietta alone had supported her choice, citing a number of reports from guards, merchants and farmers alike that had too many similarities to be mere superstitious nonsense. And after Beric had returned with news of his investigations into Wolfskull cave that he only half understood, it revealed the limitations and the fallibility of her advisors, and the value of her own insight and instincts. The gross failure of Sybille to detect the threat, and the disinterest of her advisors for inconvenient truths led to them mocking the poor man's honest claims, and the brief spark of pride that had caught and shone for a guttering moment within her was reduced to an ember.

Then, when the catacombs and caverns beneath Solitude had been revealed as flooded by vampires and Draugr in the winter of 202, Sybille had claimed shrilly that they simply could not exist. Even as the court slowly mobilised around her to fight it, she had been blind to the shifting allegiances of the court that she had once ruled. After Beric had returned through the winter snows of the north shore to the capital and had once again saved the city he reiterated his mission in a private audience with her. Of the Dawnguard and the Volkihar threat now confirmed and growing close to her capital, and she had called Sybille before her. Sybille had even then believed herself in charge and safe, daring to snap and argue at being directed her to scry for threats within Haafingar, lecturing her on how she had far too much work to deal with now to indulge these foolish beliefs. She declared her that scrying found none, let that be an end to it. And when Henrietta arrived later that night, with a neat leather folder filled with papers detailing her investigation into Sybille's activities and experiments and feeding within Castle Dour, the presence of a vampire in the heart of her court had been revealed. With the Volkihar so close, a spy in the capital could not be discounted, perfectly placed to topple Skyrim's leadership. She called Beric into another private audience, and sent him back home through the winter snows. Bring me a hero, and I will get you an army she had promised.

Beren had then ridden into the city with Beric and Serana, then as the newly proclaimed dragonborn and she had presented him to Solitude as the saviour of all of Skyrim. Tullius, embarrassed, ashamed and needing to protect his supply lines and base of operations had stumped up the a few of the troops she needed, and the brothers had sailed with the Dawnguard and Imperial forces come the spring. She had not been there to see it herself, to wield the blade in the battle that had destroyed the Volkihar but it had been her victory all the same. The council had fallen into line behind her, the people had been united with her, and even Tullius had been forced to deal with her for once as an equal, rather than one of his lieutenants.

She had saved her people. She, and Henrietta and the Stone-Striders. Beric took fame uneasily, being as dull as ditch water and nervous around the ranks nobility in which he now found himself uneasily elevated, but still more than competent as a soldier and was hailed as a no-nonsense leader. In fact, she found his rather amusing at how uneasy he felt in her presence, compared to the confidence with which he was normally reported to work. She perhaps reminder her rather of Henrietta in his own way, serious and prematurely aged beyond his years. And Beren. The warrior to Beric's soldier. Disarmingly cheerful, Nordicly handsome and naturally charismatic, he had a natural manner which was popular with the people and had charmed her as every inch the Nord hero in the many times they had met over the years. And in the times they had met in private, she had found an equal in personal experience. Someone who felt the isolation of command and leadership, and they had taken the opportunity to share their personal thoughts in a way no one else could understand. Someone chosen by fate to face a burden that humbled them by its magnitude, and the sheer sense of duty that bound them to act selflessly for the best of Skyrim as a whole, rather than the selfish desires of one.

Falk had advised her 'after this war is over, make alliances,' and the implication to marry had been clear. Now she felt the ground shifting around her once again as her newly elevated place and unwedded position attracted opportunistic suitors like wasps to ripe fruit while her conquering army dissolved into the brothels and taverns of a hundred towns and villages. Meanwhile a Potentate ruled the empire until an heir to the Ruby Throne could be identified and appointed. Another unpopular continuity candidate who had come to power through mysterious means, and like her previous self largely unknown to the people he ruled. With a Dragonborn at play it seemed only natural that the Potentate's rule would be short affair, and she would have to secure Skyrim's place within the Empire and the new order, and renew her people's faith it its power. A Nord, and a Dragonborn Emperor could do that. Yet for now it was to her own lands and her own borders that she looked to. Skyrim was divided- in loyalists who had backed her, either through principle, calculation or opportunity, and Stormcloaks who had done likewise. There were also those who had sat out the war uneasily, moderates like Balgruuf or Maven who had been lukewarm to both parties and now sought to prove themselves while exploiting their position. Many of these had hidden and hoarded their power while others had spent men and money to win victories which left them with an uneasy, deflated triumph.

That did not mean she had to surrender all action to her enemies, and a surprise would keep them unbalanced and passive, which suited her very much at this time. Henrietta had done her work on Beren and his companions and had once suggested that she marry Beric once this war was over. But her Skyrim was not Henrietta's High Rock, and birth counted for perhaps a little more than most Nords would admit, or Henrietta would have warranted. Beric was a bastard born commoner of unknown parents to the lowest slums of Whiterun, and so she could not marry him. Whereas Beren was Dragonborn, and therefore ennobled through the same Dragonblood which had elevated countless emperors to the Ruby throne. Besides his marriage to Aela he was a near perfect candidate. Moreover, he was a malleable one in a way only she could work. If he had a fault, besides his anger, it was the urge to power and an inability to rest on his laurels, and that weakness was one she was keen to press.

Once she dangled the Ruby throne as a goal in front of him, he would pursue it to the ends of Tamriel. And she could do far more for him in achieving that goal than Aela and a handful of divided companions could, as he would quickly realise as he kicked his heels in his Whiterun estate. She had a base of operations in Solitude and a country's worth of resources to call upon, and the political expertise for such a play. He had an army that appeared at the sounding of a horn, and the respect of all Skyrim for destroying the three greatest terrors this age had seen. Marrying him would bring what she needed most-a symbol of strength to gather around, independence from those who would wish to entangle her, unity for her people, and protection for her. His thirst for conquest wetted and his responsibilities made clear to a nation of millions of people how could he justify maintaining his marriage to Aela? Her thoughts quieted by this comforting notion as her utterly exhausted brain simply closed down, she finally, peacefully slipped off to sleep.

At first, she attempted to merely ignore whatever soul, spirit or demon that sought to irritate her so persistently like a particularly vexing papercut. She then tried to find sanctuary in a session of confession and absolution from her private confessor, and a potion of sleep after they persisted past this spiritual healing. This, coupled along with a small magical cleansing of her bed chambers by Melaran over the weekend had been enough to drive off whatever malicious spirit had been lingering there away and into the void. The morning of Morndas the 16th of Last seed was a glorious one. While a small part of her knew and acknowledged it was the last of the summer sun, she luxuriated in this final golden opportunity, and Elisif felt content for the first time in weeks after her last night's uninterrupted, full night's sleep.

* * *

The warm light of the morning sun fell upon the exposed balcony where Elisif ate breakfast, carrying with it a dawn breeze cool and salty fresh off the Sea of Ghosts as she careful tapped the top off a boiled egg with a small spoon and dipped a toast soldier into the runny golden yoke. Wearing once again her warm dressing gown over her shift she munched happy as she poured some Canis root tea into her cup to ward off the exhaustion that darkened her mood and clouded her mind, much lifted by still felt. The doors to her bedroom were wide open, and the room was filled with the refreshing morning breeze that set the curtains to gently billowing as she looked out over the bay that stretched out five hundred feet below her. The air was filled with birds, from hawks and sea eagles to the gulls which nested in the cracks and cervices in Solitude's mightily arch. While below the waters of the bay were already filling with fishing smacks which headed out in their schools, trailed by larger ships, amongst which there were a few rotund traders holks from High Rock and a proud trio of Nord longship, early risers taking the morning tide out of the harbour.

She sipped her tea and finished her egg, before picking up an apple and careful peeling it with a knife. The warships were departing on her orders and would clear the headland at Lighthouse point and then turn west, and patrol towards Northwatch to the very borders of High Rock. Likewise, she knew the fishing smacks would return at nightfall, their holds filled with fish and clams. But the trader's destinations were an unknown to her, and she watched with curiosity, wondering which way they would turn. Many had business with High Rock, but it had only been months since the siege of Dawnstar had ended, and merchants were nothing if not quick to sense a new business opportunity, and a silver-tongued Breton was sure to find a good deal there.

There were a quick three raps on the bedroom door. Elisif stood immediately, done with breakfast and returned to her chamber as a pair of servants cleared away her breakfast tray and closed the doors to the balcony. She sat down behind the desk and smoothed out the fabric of her dressing gown, as Henrietta hurried in, carrying under her arm a trio of leather document wallets and a number of individual sheaves of paper. She set he leather documents cases before Elisif undid the leather ties and opened the first of them as Henrietta summarised their contents

"Initial reports and summaries on the three newly arrived suitors. Personal histories, family trees, known allies, and their enemies. Also, likely points of contact within Skyrim and the Court. It is not a co-incidence these individuals arrived in time to winter in Solitude."

"Doubtless." Elisif nodded, taking the point, running a jaded eye over the summary at the top of the pile as Henrietta opened another leather wallet, filled with the day to day business of the Kingdom. Elisif found seal, quill and ink to set her signature on a few administrative document and orders, but was disappointed when the third contains much of the same.

"Today's letters?" Elisif asked hopefully, looking up from the summaries laid out before here

"Here, ma'am." Henrietta laid out a small splash of mail that required a personal response, she quickly looked over the seals on the letters, before putting them down discouraged.

The noble families of Hammerfell, High Rock and Cyrodiil had maintained superficially friendly terms with her court over the past few years, at first disbelieving her reports and then sitting on their hands as they waited to see who would win before jumping in to back the winning horse at the last hour. She knew why deep down, few had expected the then-Jarl Elisif to have any long-term relevance, or to have emerged as High Queen from the Moot against more experienced contenders. Many still saw her as the tipsy, naïve and gullible young girl of Elenwen's party being played like a fiddle by her courtiers, and the embarrassing memory of that day burned inside her like a coal. Now those families were out in the cold in more ways than one, overtaken by the stunning speed of events since the entry of the last Dragonborn into the war. News travels slow though, the story of the great Battle of Blizzard's rest was doubtless still making its way out across Tamriel, and even amongst those better informed many had been expecting the civil war to drag on into the next year, as optimism following that victory soured and the worsening weather seemed set to force an abandonment of the stalemated sieges of Windhelm and Dawnstar.

Now the war was now over, ended suddenly by fire and flood, the enemy cities broken by Thu'um and the threat of dragon attack. Instead of a grinding slog or being forced to barter, her country had emerged victorious without the help of any outside force (less the imperial legion) renewed under a Dragonborn and a young queen, and it was for her formerly distant 'allies' to make amends. It was more than likely those families would start sending their own eligible Batchelors come the spring in the new year to add to the current crop. Perhaps a more vicious queen would label it 'too little, too late,' and enjoy the opportunity to flaunt her newly empowered position and the prestige that a sudden glorious victory brought. But in her mind, there was no need for examples to be made here, the execution of the traitor jarls had been message enough to those who had doubted her strength or determination to rule Skyrim. She pulled the small stack of orders forward for her seal and signature.

Such arithmetic strengthened the hand of the few suitors present now. Those who arrived later did so out of fear and a desire to curry favour which would be hard to hide, while there had been few allies who had come willingly to her court earlier who had been in any way serious contenders for her hand. She knew that these three hoped to have timed their arrival to perfection, alerted by spies within her court and meant to seize the moment, exploiting the harsh Skyrim winter in the hope that the famously empty-headed beauty that was now Skyrim's new High Queen could be over-awed or wooed into taking one of them into the warmth of her fur-covered bed. She had no desire to stand idle and surrender the initiative so quickly to her enemies or allies. She signed and sealed the last document with a flourish and stood, walking behind the dressing screen as Henrietta gathered up freshly signed documents.

"No news from Whiterun at all then?" she called from around the edge of the screen as she pulled the dressing gown off, beginning to feel anxious by the delay these communications forced upon any negotiation. Servants and ladies' maids rushed bearing a selection of dresses, a basin of warm water, soap and towels.

"None yet Ma'am, I am sorry."

She huffed and pulled last night's shift up over her head, goose-bumps pimpleing her suddenly naked flesh at the coolness of the chamber air. She washed with floral soap and warm fresh water from the basin and dried her body as servants brought forward a new one for the day, spun from tundra cotton and fresh and crisp as new fallen snow. Then followed a riot of gowns, jewellery, perfume and inconsequential chit-chat as they joked and enjoyed the cheerful dawns light. Amidst the whirl of activity that surrounded her she found a measure of peace in the steady routine of the servants, the routine a constant companion throughout her life.

It was only Henrietta's presence, hidden just behind the screen that had changed the scene. It had been Bolgeir who had suggested that Elisif take on a private secretary shortly after she had come to power as Jarl. Suddenly alone exposed at court, crushed with the weight of her new responsibility and dependent upon a range of unfamiliar faces she had little trust in and they little respect for her, it had seemed the sensible first step to select and hire her own staff, men and women loyal to her.

Somehow Henrietta had appeared upon her the shortlist for private secretary. A Breton from High Rock, she had been born the daughter of a newly ennobled knight employed by the local count only for a coup to topple her family and their patron from power. Elisif had found her loyal, discrete and a highly intelligent woman, if somewhat paranoid and hired her over any number of her Nord nobility who had been born to the court. She had quickly grown to become Elisif's right hand, winning her absolute trust upon discovering and reporting the taint of vampirism within her own court, and the unholy activities that damned vampire had enacted within Castle Dour. She shuddered away from such thoughts, eager to put last night behind her.

Now wearing sumptuous silken dress of crimson and gold, she strode out from behind the screen where a trio of servants had now appeared and waited before her with opened jewellery boxes. While the Ring of State never left her finger, there was an array of other items no High Queen could be seen without and from them she took a pair of diamond earrings, a golden necklace heavy and sparkling with gems, and finally the Jagged Crown, lifting it high to fit snuggly about her face. She checked her reflection in the mirror, and was surprised to see Henrietta still present. For all that her maids and ladies in waiting were sworn to secrecy, Elisif knew well that that the surest way to leak a secret was to tell them one in confidence. They waited patiently as the servants and ladies' maids filled out of her bedchamber, the door shutting with a click behind the last one.

"You should be prepared for the council to discuss what the arrival of the new suitors means for your proposal to marry the Dragonborn. Six months ago many thought your proposal a flight of fancy, three months ago a dangerous indulgence. Now these new suitors offer an opportunity to save face, and they are panicking at what the Dragonborn might due to a councillor suddenly out of favour and blamed for your decision. They mean to re-open the issue today."

Elisif flinched at the bluntness of this approach.

"You are sure of your sources?"

"Completely."

Elisif pondered this for a moment, and then blurted out into the morning air in a sudden rush of nerves as a slight shiver ran up her spine.

"Do you disagree with my decision, Henrietta?"

"Not at all, Elisif. There is a pragmatic wisdom to it, a hard-headedness which speaks of strength and stability in these unsettled times. But many of the council find the offer to Beren distasteful, and they all have other suitors who they think might be more advantageous and less controversial."

"Less controversial?" she thought aloud, thinking of what the Nords she ruled would make of a Redguard, Breton or pirate consort to their High Queen.

"In the acquisition."

"Henrietta speak clearly." She snapped, tiring of this little game.

"Then you should be prepared for the anger that the perception of an unjust use of royal power to force a man to divorce his wife will cause." She replied, stressing the word.

"It is the promise of a united, peaceful Skyrim and access to the throne that will cause Beren to divorce Aela, not the threat my anger. What threat could I make to frighten the Last Dragonborn? And what man would not divorce their wife to marry a queen for the good of his country? Besides all that, what Dragonborn could refuse when all have been driven by their lust for power?"

Henrietta nodded reluctantly at this, narrowing her eyes in thought as she considered the proposal.

"To which of these natures are we appealing?"

"Why both at once of course, I know Beren well enough…perhaps better than most would guess, I would warrant. I know what drives him and what fears stalk his dream by night, as they haunt my own sleeping hours. Neither of us looked for our titles, Beren was made Dragonborn by Akatosh, as was I by grace of the Divines and twist of fate, made High Queen. Besides that, man or woman, peasant or noble, all desire power for themselves. It is that desire that will lead them to press for their own suitors though they do not solve Skyrim's problems, just as it will win Beren to my side."

Henrietta met her eyes at this, looking hard as her brown-stone eyes darted and searched Elisif's blue-green eyes for an unspoken answer. Elisif kept her face blank and her thought hidden, though she could not bear Henrietta's searching gaze for long, and looked away, awkward at this sudden harsh investigation by her friend. After a pause Henrietta nodded and broke the silence with a sigh.

"Forgive me, your Majesty. I remain committed to you in this, and I believe it the best solution to Skyrim's many problems, but many of your councillors have quicker, easier and simpler solutions to peddle. Just as such a bold move may embolden our enemies. I want to be sure we are ready for all eventualities."

Elisif nodded, thinking as she murmured a reply.

"Then by all the Divines I pray we are."

* * *

"Come now, you know I don't listen to gossip like that…."

Erikur laughed in the quiet of the council room before his sentence was abruptly cut off. All stood as Elisif swept into the council room, the squeal of chairs and the scrape of feet as the men and women who crowded around the long table bowed at her entrance. She acknowledged their obedience with a nod, and seated herself at the head of the table. She looked around the table, relieved to see all were in place and waiting expectantly for her to open the Council meeting., Falk was seated to her right hand, next to him sat Thane Bryling, then Thane Erikur where they would squabble as only sibling could throughout her council meetings. Viarmo, headmaster of the College of the Arts looked proud and alert in his seat, though perhaps a little uneasy as Bolgeir took up his place next to them, boredom already flitting across his face as he took up his place at the far end of the table opposite her and closest to the door. She had seated the two imperials on her council side by side, Legate Caesennius sat straight-backed beside Bolgeir where the two old soldiers could entertain each other, paperwork neatly stacked Infront of him. Next to him sat Aquillius, a rather grey man much crumpled these past few months and still mourning the tragic accident that had killed his cousin Vittoria, she sympathised deeply with his pain. His council however was invaluable any number of matters as a highly ranked member of the East Empire Company and a good Bellwether for any imperial reaction. The last two seats were quickly filled as Melaran returned from enacting the seals, wards and barriers needed to hide their council from any would-be spies, and Henrietta, who swept in and sat to the seat to her left.

The Council room was hung with large oils on its otherwise barren walls, landscapes scenes of mountains, woods and field in an only partially successful attempt to reduce the oppressive atmosphere of the windowless room. The only air the slightest of breezes that trickled under the door, a necessity as much as it was an unfortunate weak point but one which she had been assured could be guarded against. Its oppressive atmosphere helped focus attention upon her as Henrietta handed over a copy of the agenda for the meeting. She opened it, picked up her quill and read the first item.

"I would first like to update my council about the events discussed at yesterday's open audience. Many of my people reported issues with pirates raiding the north shore to High Rock, along with banditry on the mountain passes. Legate Caesennius, Bolgeir, I believe I left responsibility for this with you."

"Good news, Bad news I'm afraid. Bad news first. I've made preparations to dispatch a squadron of auxiliary cavalry, and a couple of companies of light infantry, but they will take time to organise, a couple of weeks perhaps."

"Why the delay?" she asked, by that time autumn would be fully here and an early snowfall would leave the highland villages to the bandit's tender mercies throughout the long winter.

"Casualties and the recent return from active duty. Many soldiers are missing, presumed drunk. They'll return once they've drunk or gambled all their money in town."

"Can the Town Watch do anything?" she asked exasperated and turning to Bolgeir

"When we find them, we turn them over to the legion. If we can find them." He grumbled. They had been around their argument before, the waterfront was a disorientating mess of warehouses, storerooms, wharfs, quays all jumbled up with taverns, hovels and houses of ill repute all filled to the brim with humanity that rendered even the most wanted murder anonymous. She briefly considered dispatching a squadron of her Royal guard to reinforce the expedition, but discarded it. Stripping out her own protection would unite the council against her.

"You mentioned you had some good news? What of the Longships I saw departing this morning?"

"Ahh yes. We've had a spot of luck with the pirates. the navy couldn't provide any ships at short notice so we prepared letters of marque for privateers." A look passed around the council, and Elisif had a sinking feeling in her stomach.

"Leif Wind-Walker generously made his ships available in the absence of the Navy taking to sea" Erikur announced as all eyes turned onto him. "his crews are rested and ready, after a few weeks in Solitude. One last sail along the north shore under those letters should help pacify the situation before winter's storms end travel by sea for the season. They should be back in a month or so."

"I wonder if the ease with which he clears out his old haunts will make up for how hard it must have been for him to turn on his old shipmates." Aquillius remarked tartly.

"I don't listen to those sorts of rumours, and a man like Leif doesn't care to hear them. He would say it's probably about as easy it is to talk behind a man's back instead of before his face. Perhaps you should ask him yourself." Erikur shooed him away with a bored wave of his hands, like a particularly annoying wasp.

"Leif did not sail with his ships then?" she asked, puzzled at why he remained behind.

"Indeed not, he remains in Solitude to celebrate his triumph over Dawnstar with his soldiers, sailors and marines. If I may bring your attention to something else your majesty, He is concerned and seeks to press his case regarding the prize money and ransom from the city of Dawnstar, where he was commander of our forces. Many of his men and ships remain in Solitude, waiting his promise to ensure he get them their prize money."

Henrietta stirred beside her, making a series of discrete notes in a small notebook and flipping through its pages, but it was Falk who intervened at this, searching through the papers before him as he spoke in a bored voice. Clearly it was not the first time he had been down this road.

"He didn't take the surrender or seize the city. The city deposed its Jarl and the revolutionaries under Brina Merilis specifically surrendered to Beren Stone-Strider and his Dragons, not the original besieging forces under the command of Leif Wind-walker. The law is clear in this instance, Leif gains credit for his assistance, but was not the man to which the surrender was offered."

"The law states that it is the commander to which the surrender is given, and that subordinates accept the surrender of others on their behalf."

"Clearly a Dragonborn outranks a self-appointed 'privateer' admiral." Viarmo put in

"And where does the law say that?" Erikur asked with a smirk.

"What of the reports that Leif handed over command to the Dragonborn and his brother?" Falk weighed in with the trump card, flaunting said report in his hand, the weather-beaten paper bearing the faded seal of the Last Dragonborn visible upon it.

"There are no records of such an arrangement being made, and Leif has been clear that the brothers unfortunately misinterpreted his words, giving them his permission to take action as was his right to do so as the commander." Erikur replied with a pleasant grin, passing his own report up to the queen, fresh and clean.

"Enough." Elisif snapped at them.

"Leif is free to pursue his case through the Law-Speakers. Until that time the prize money and ransom from the siege remains contested. Take it up personally in the courts if you feel the need to intervene." Or challenge Beren to a duel if you question his integrity, she thought to herself. She did not feel particularly invested in the dispute either way, the treasury had already claimed its share, a small but much needed boost to its dwindling coffers. While she disliked Leif for his peacocking ways and had a soft spot for the Stone-strider brothers, them claiming their stake and thus reducing the share of prizemoney to the common soldiery was unlikely to make them or her popular in the long run. Better to be seen to have washed her hands of the issue and allow the law to be seen to take its course. Though she would keep an eye out and have Henrietta and her agents would keep the jury fair.

"Perhaps my councillors could continue this discussion elsewhere while we address the second item. What news about the harvest?"

Falk shifted a few pieces of paper before him, and summarised the reports before him.

"We are still waiting for news to come in from all of our Jarls, but it is about as can be expected so far. Haafingar, the Reach and Hjaalmarch have reported satisfactory harvests, but there is little grain that we can export. As for those holds formerly held by the rebels or touched by the war, we only know of Winterhold, which should be fine. Balgruuf's report is yet to arrive, but we expect bad news, along with the Pale, the Rift and Eastmarch, where the war fell heaviest. It is likely that Whiterun should be unaffected, able to trade for grain our of its own treasury, but the others?" he left the question hanging in the air for a moment before continuing.

"We should prepare ourselves for famine in the former Stormcloak holds." He stated, and Elisif stuttered, mind whirling with solutions. Surely the other provinces could help make up the shortfall.

"Could we import grain? Cyrodiil, High Rock, Hammerfell or even Morrowind could offer aide. We could send missions to these provinces and have food ready come the spring." She asked Falk.

Erikur intervened at this, speaking from halfway down the table on the right.

"I have received news from Maven these past few days concerning these matters, Maven…Jarl Maven that is, has created a number of soup kitchens, financed out of her own purse for the relief of her ruined city. She seems to be having some success, and the higher numbers of Dunmer in her city makes trade with Morrowind easier. We could use Leif's fleet, and ship food to Windhelm and Dawnstar."

"Nords would rather die than eat Dunmer food or ask one for charity." Bolgeir cut over their conversation with a growl from the far end of the table, to murmurs of support from most of her councillors, and Erikur coloured at the challenge. Falk spoke over the muttering with deliberate care.

"Sadly, your majesty, I fear Bolgeir is right. No Nord would willing eat what the Dunmer call food. Nor is your Court or the Empire on the best of terms with Morrowind after the siege of Windhelm. The Dunmer ambassador is demanding that the legion turn over Beren's report on the siege. The reports of flooding caused by his Thu'um have the great houses in uproar at the drowning of many of their kinsmer in the Grey Quarter. Memories of the Nord tongues and of your empire still linger there. As things stand it is unlikely, we would receive little help from that quarter."

"How quickly the forget the debt they owe Beren for Solstheim." She marvelled in a half-heard whisper to herself. She nodded to Aquillius, who was playing disinterestedly playing with a quill. "What of Cyrodiil? I would assume that they would not be keen to allow the newly won territories to slip into unrest once again."

"We can ask the potentate's ambassador to provide food aid and riot troops, but that would undermine the firm line we wanted to take with them. They will likely be pressing for the return of the legions at the earliest opportunity in the new year." He shrugged and turned to the legate at his side, gesturing in boredom and disinterest.

"He will care little for bread riots as will his ambassador, and with Riften and Windhelm in ruins and Dawnstar cowed by the mere shadow of Beren's dragons we will perceive the threat of renewed civil war as non-existent. The Thalmor have been carrying out manoeuvres across the border in Valenwood. It is too late in the campaigning season and will likely come to nothing, but the legions wills be withdrawn to bolster the Cyrodilic garrisons and the Potentate will see local security as Skyrim's problem..." His voice trailed away as the unspoken acknowledgement filled the air, this was a test for her as skyrim's new ruler. Falk cleared his throat

"Thank you, legate. To add to his points, we should also consider the difficulties of trade. The Pale pass will likely be sealed by winter behind the ambassadors on their return. We would have no aide or answers until the spring."

"Do we have no means of magical communication with them?" She snapped at Melaran, who shook his head.

"High Rock or Hammerfell then. The north road to High rock is not as dangerous as the pale pass, and ship have a shorter journey. We could stockpile food from either province in Solitude, Morthal and Windhelm before the worse of the winter weather, and distribute those stockpiles while new food arrives from the provinces."

There was a measure of nodding and positive noises as this as her council looked around the table.

"That is more possible my lady. However, they will have conditions on a deal such as this. The expense. There are matters of administration that would require the personal attention at the highest levels to react quickly enough before the arrival of winter. We would need to ensure our offer is sufficiently attractive that his is a mutual exchange, and not charity." Falk said carefully, and she felt the air thicken around her as the yet undiscussed topic first stirred the waters. She shifted uncomfortable in her chair.

"They may perhaps make a marriage-alliance a requirement as part of these negotiations." He stated very, very delicately.

"That is unacceptable." Elisif stated flatly in return, stonewalling him.

"It is for the good of all skyrim's people that we should at least discuss it before we dismiss it." Thane Erikur noted, but Elisif swiped the statement angrily from the air.

"We have discussed this for the past six months. In the spring, we shall invite Beren to Solitude, where we will be married and secure Skyrim. Ending the pointless division and civil war we have seen. It is fitting that a war that began with the murder of my husband should end with my marriage to another."

"Hear, hear." Cried Viarmo, turning all eyes upon the previously forgotten Altmer.

"the Elf is right." Erikur rumbled grudgingly, and the 'hear hears' this time were echoed by many of her councillors. Henrietta tried to catch her eye, while Falk avoided hers.

"My lady…." Legate Adventus began, and Elisif raised an eyebrow at this. He usually was happy to spend council doodling in his notebooks and daydreaming, only bring drawn into discussion at the dog whistle like call of the words 'legion,' 'battle,' and 'elves.'

"Legate, I believe you have something to say."

He stood, oddly formal.

"I tend to restrain myself in council to those issues which I understand best- the conduct and politics of war. I have little concern for or understanding of the issues of marriage, and coin, but I firmly believe it is my duty to council against your marriage to Beren Stone-Strider." He paused, as if expecting her to immediately reject this, but when she said noting and gave no reaction other than a slight nod of encouragement, he continued.

"We should consider the character and temperament of this man. Beren has shown little skill in leadership off the battlefield that cannot be placed at his brother's feet. On the battlefield, he has shown mercy unwisely and without discrimination or consideration. He is a man of violent tempers, and given to emotional outbursts. What Skyrim needs most is to locate a man of calm and proven leadership."

Ahh she thought, this is about the Duke, and she shook her head in disagreement, simply unwilling to accept his line of argument.

"How can the man who pardoned 10,000 Stormcloak prisoners on the field of battle be labelled unstable? Or given to violent outburst?"

He nodded, expecting her answer, and answered in a measure, respectful tone.

"Indeed, he did, but what was the price of Beren's mercy? How many of those did he pardon simply return to the colours to fight on alongside the Stormcloak? This council knows well from General Tullius's reports from prisoners that hundreds of the defenders of Windhelm had previously laid their swords before him after the Battle of Blizzard's rest. Beren forgave without mercy, and in doing so sent hundreds of his fellow legionnaires and Auxiliaries to their deaths because he was more concerned with his reputation as Dragonborn that the needs of the war he was fighting."

Henrietta stood at this, matching the legate and looking him square in the eye.

"Beren gave them their freedom, and they exercised their freedom as they chose- poorly. Their choices are on them, not him. By foreswearing their oaths, they dishonoured their cause, and the gods granted us victory as punishment for their impiety."

"Save your sermons for the Temple, Henrietta, we should turn our minds to politics and not pretend to known the will of the gods." Erikur sneered at her piety.

"Then perhaps we should consider why they sent the Dragonborn to us, the last of his kind?"

A pause followed this pronouncement.

"Well we know why. To kill dragons!" Viarmo shouted, and people hurriedly cut him off before he could begin a lengthy recital of the portents, legends and literary analysis of the legend of the Dragonborn.

"Perhaps, Perhaps. However, we should also consider what effect this might have on the average Nord-about-town. Many will question what right the queen has to demand a man divorce his wife, or the morality of a man who would do so for power. This is a very dangerous game to play, and I fear that we may lose the love of the people when they hear of it." Erikur stated.

"I fear he is right. Beren married for love by all accounts. If his heart ruled his head once before, it will again. Beren will not marry you, my Queen." Thane Bryling spoke up, the first words she had uttered all morning, and Elisif was aghast at the simple manner with which she spoke. She had always valued her for her principles and honourable nature, her insight into the minds of the most honourable Nords. Bolgeir rose then, His own chair screeching across the ground. He walked around as a vast bearlike lump, lumbering around the table to stand at her side, a show of force as much as loyalty. He growled at his audience.

"Save us your tragic heroes and your penny romances. A peasant may marry their village sweetheart, but a noble act for the good of his family and the realm. Beren must act according to his rank. His marriage to Aela gave him a pack of half-loyal mercenaries. If Skyrim requires him to wed the Queen to secure the peace, and he shall carry out his duty, just as Elisif and Aela shall."

Bryling flushed and muttered at this, and angry muttering joined at Bolgeir's attempt to intimidate them, and Elisif flushed embarrassed at this ill-judged show of support by the man.

"Why should the Queen marry a Nord at all? There are a number of noble families from outside Skyrim that we should consider. An alliance with other provinces would help improve trade and replenish our depleted treasury, High Rock for example." Falk said carefully.

"Ah yes, an aging Duke whose most valuable asset is his name and victories over the orcs and pirate that are nearly two decades old." Erikur snarked tartly.

"Then perhaps you mean to champion our Prince of the Pimples? He is wealthy enough to buy himself the position if it were for sail." Bryling replied, talking over Falk protestations as she spat poison at her brother, as insults flew back and forth between them.

"Better a prince in the bloom of youth than a Duke old enough to be the Queen's father."

"Age bring many benefits- experience, wisdom, and a certain steadiness of character. I pray that you will live to sample them."

"Enough of all this! No Nord would accept foreign domination! Or a foreign Consort to their beloved Queen!" Erikur shouted, rising to his feet to scream at his sister, who likewise rose. "Skyrim Belongs to the Nords, and by a Nord she shall be ruled! Skyrim belongs to the Nord!" he screamed, and all around them the chamber dissolved into disarray. Falk and Adventus arguing for marriage with High Rock, Bryling and Aquillius of the advantages of an alliance in Hammerfell, while the others screamed for either Beren or a Nord noble.

Overwhelmed, she turned to Bolgeir, who noted the look upon her face and watched as her councillors screamed and shouted around her. Standing in a clatter of mail and plate, he raised a hand as large as her face and brought his palm crashing down like a blacksmiths hammer. The blow rattled the table, sending the councillor's jumping, the chair crashing and rattling the tumblers, goblets and cups arrayed upon it. he rained a series of blows upon it until the councillors took their seats, red faced but restrained. He stopped, crossed his arms and dared the councillors to meet his eyes. None did. He glanced at her, and Elisif nodded her thanks.

"My councillors, I confess I am quite overwhelmed by the…dedication and the excellence of the advice you have shown me this day, and the concerns you have shown for our kingdom. And I would be remis as Queen to dismiss your advice and concerns out of hand. I'm sure your excellent men all have tongues for themselves. By all means let them use them, and demonstrate to the court the value such a marriage-alliance would have. I'm sure that they would relish an opportunity to demonstrate their quality alongside the Dragonborn in competition for my hand."

"Let us therefore leave the issue for the moment as unresolved, and return to the matter at hand."

She looked around the room, and when none complained as this neat little compromise, she returned to the agenda before her.

The meeting stretched throughout the morning, broken only by an hour for lunch, and returned with a vengeance in the afternoon as they returned to the room which felt more and more like a cell or dungeon with every minute that they spent. Even the painting had long lost their charm, their bucolic scenes becoming almost mocking in their presentation of an idealised nature entirely out of reach to the prisoners who beheld them. Afterward the council was finished she lingered and received in her office-library with its large sea views within her private quarters where now grey skies clouded the previously blue sunlight skies. There she again saw her councillors one by one, where they once again attempted to re-open the issue as she and Henrietta reluctantly once again took up the task of defending her choices. Some like Falk and Adventus she was sure had her interests at heart, but others felt more opportunistic. She denied them all.

That evening she took supper with her court in full splendour as drops of rain fell upon the windows panes, wining and dining her disappointed councillors and making a show of mildly flirting and listening with respect to the stories that their chosen suitors told. She laughed at their jokes, teased, ask their advice and generally demonstrated her mastery of the politician's art of using many words to say very little. Finally, she excused herself, pleading the business of state and begging understanding from her gallant Duke, prince and thane as she discretely directed for more wine to be brought up to cover her retreat. She returned to her private apartments with the abstemious Henrietta and the ever sober Bolgeir in tow. There she dismissed them and went directly to her bedchamber, where she and ignoring her desk entirely and called her servants. Stripped of jewellery and wiggling out of her dress she dived gratefully into her bed for a well-deserved early night.

* * *

Elisif was suddenly jerked awake at the noisy palace around her. There was an autumn storm blowing, and she could hear the rain pelt her windows, and the wind ratting the roof, yet these noises were not expected. There were shouts coming down the halls, and the clatter of soldier's hobnails on the stone and wood floors. Yells followed and somewhere far off in the palace a bell was being tolled. Other bells followed; the sound deadened by the heavy curtains. She hurried from the bed and wrenched them aside, craning her head out as rain splattered on her head and rain whipped her hair to look down the line of battlements toward Castle Dour and the Sacred District where sat the imposing bulk of the Great Temple. There were no burning buildings or fire to be seen, but she could hear plainly the alarm bells ringing from there across her city, as they had when the Emperor had been found dead aboard his ship. The cold wind from the Sea of Ghosts gusted, chilling her and she shivered and pulled back inside.

She could hear Henrietta yelling as she pulled her dressing gown on, and hesitated a minute, before grabbing a sheathed dagger from under her pillow and gripping it uneasily in both hands. Was this a coup? Was it dragons? Henrietta was rapping out orders at a terrifying rate of knots to match the sharp crack of her shoes on the floor of the corridor, marching down towards her chamber door.

"…. Seal the Palace, have the Household Knights stand to. Send runners to the city guard barracks ordering them to bar the gates and prepare for a riot. And finally, find that damned elf Melaran and have him search and secure the palace with his acolytes from top to bottom. Report to me personally when it is secure."

The doors slammed open as Bolgeir burst into the room, sword in hand, lantern in the other. Moving with rapid and determined steps four of her household knights clattered in behind him, followed by Henrietta.

"Come with me your majesty, it's not safe." Bolgeir barked. He moved quickly as he secured the room, putting the lantern down on her desk and checking the windows and balcony door, he quickly closed and locked the window she had just opened.

"I don't understand, what's going on?" She protested with uncertainty in her voice and instantly regretted how petulant she sounded, as fear and hesitation fought with sense and pride inside her.

"I'll explain shortly. Come with me, we need to get you to safety." Elisif hesitated for a moment and then nodded, still clutching the dagger in both hands before her. They marched off in diamond formation, Henrietta and Elisif in the centre, Bolgeir at the tip, her knights around her, weapons drawn. They passed by a pair of weeping ladies' maids, frightened looking servants and hurrying guardsmen before branching down a little used hallway to take a series of secret corridors and hidden passageways she had only once used, cunningly concealed and accessible only via the enchantments woven into the Ring of State.

They took a bare and narrow stone staircase that doubled back upon its as it burrowed down deep into the earth, light by flickering lanterns as they descended in single file before entering a short corridor with a low roof that was so narrow it almost brushed both her shoulders, ending with a solidly built door. Finally, they arrived at the bolthole. Inside, it was a dark, windowless dungeon deep beneath the palace, carved from the rock of the arch of Solitude, the door four inches thick of oak and barred with iron, with a small grated window with a sliding hatch set into it. Bolgeir stood next to the door, Henrietta disdained the to sit and instead leant against the wall, while her knights stood quietly, attentive and watching. The room smelt of dust and slightly of old wine as Elisif sat uneasily for a moment on one of the faded threadbare chairs. Waiting nervously and shivering as cold and adrenaline coursed through her. Unwilling to speak and betray her nerves, trusting that news would be brought to her quickly, knowing that someone was coming, trusting her life to the advisors who surrounded her. The last time she had been here was more than a year ago. They had fled to this dungeon to hide from the mere sight of a dragon, and she felt the same mixture of shame and apathy as she cowered like a mouse from a cat. Then, as now, a hundred feet above her guards had manned scorpions and ballistae as her people huddled in timber framed building, praying for deliverance and remembering the stories of the burning of Riften by the dragon Viinturuth. Ultimately the unknown dragon had simply flown a few lazy laps well out of range of their defences, and then disappeared.

Suddenly there was a harsh knocking on the door, and Bolgeir drew back the flap.

"Where is he?" he snapped.

Something inaudible was mumbled through the grate and she watched as Bolgeir turned bright red with rage, spittle flying as he lost all control and decorum.

"Don't try to fuck me around you cunt! Get him here. Show him to me. Now." He bit off each word as Elisif sat there blushing at the coarse language that fell without effort from his mouth. There was a mummering and a muttering as movement came along the short narrow corridor, and Bolgeir watched impatiently, Elisif stood, and Bolgeir held out a hand for a moment at she cleared her throat.

"Good. At fucking last. Only him, the muscle waits outside, don't need your fuck-ugly mugs scaring the Queen." He snapped the little hatch shut, and drew the heavy bolts back. The door opened, revealing the one man she had not expected to see. Marquis Raynald Masterfield staggered bow-legged into the room as though popped like a cork from a bottle from the packed corridor before the door snapped shut behind him and was locked into place. His auburn hair, usually neatly combed and glistening with pomade was in disarray. His face was browned from the dust of the road, his skin barely distinguishable from his wet and mud splatted clothes and he swayed on his feet as Elisif's mind raced. He must have ridden his horse out from under him, and the next one too, to have made it here this quickly. Elisif straightened up, hiding the dagger up her sleeve as she again cleared her throat. It had been her advisors who had rushed her here for her safety, but she did not have to panic because of that.

The Marquis swayed for a minute, staring at the floor and then looked up at her as if only just noticing her. Eyes unfocused and wet with tears at the corners of his eyes. He staggered forwards, swaying like a sailor newly returned to shore. He dropped to his knees and kissed her hands, exhaustion and despair sketched across his face beneath the layers of streaked dirt from the road.

"You Majesty…. The Dragonborn has been murdered." He muttered.

Elisif blinked. She bit back her first question. He had stated it so simply, so truthfully that no confused confirmation was required. Beren was dead. She could only think to nod uneasily as he began to cry silently. She jumped as the dagger clattered loudly on the floor, falling from nerveless fingers.

"Please take a seat Raynald." She said automatically unable to think of what else to do, gripping him by the arm and offering the threadbare chair. He sunk into it, clinging to her as he gently helped him up from the floor. Tears rolled down his face and fell dripping into his lap. He released his grip, and gently folded his hands in his lap, his usually manicured fingernails broken, his hands dirty and calloused. She gently gripped his shoulder for a second, a reassuring hollow squeeze. She knew why he wept; Humanities greatest hope was dead, his mission failed, and Raynald had plainly reached the limits of human endurance to inform her of it. Yet she did not feel grief yet, only rage, red hot and seething, such as she had felt when Torygg had died that had seen her rip her clothes and tear her curtains down until the tears had come screaming out. It returned now, and she reached out and gripped his hands, at first gently, and then with increasing strength until her fingernails bite into his flesh and her knuckles clenched white and shook as he gasped in pain. Somehow the pain, the effort, and the strength focused her, stopped her from screaming at her loss.

"I want you to…to tell me everything…tell me everything that happened. And then…Then together, we are going to kill whoever did this."

* * *

**Author's note**

Hello everyone! I am very sorry how badly this chapter was delayed. By way of apology please accept 16,000 words. My life has been in absolute turmoil due to moving, taking up a new job in work and dealing with a fairly challenging series of issues there over the past few months. Unfortunately, it is unlikely that I will be releasing a chapter for 1st November due to spending a few weeks working in Turkey and Belgium over the next month, but will aim to have the next chapter out for 1st December.

Besides the issues above, writing Elisif was something I found hard to do, as I had not previously planned on her being a POV character. As the story progressed, I realised that her lack of perspective was becoming a bit of an issue, and this required me to do a bit of additional back-ground work to ground the character in my head. This in part informed the awkward time skips from the 11th, back to the 7th and then forwards to the 16th, and if I ever re-write this then that would be my first thing to fix. I hope that I was not to confusing. Please let me know what you like and any work on points you would offer for this chapter, and I very open and eager to hear your criticism and perspectives.

Cheers!

**Reviews**

Hey Hermit Witch, thanks very much for the very positive review (and the little push to get this chapter away!). The difficulty I had with this chapter was introducing Elisif and the nature of court life. I realised early on that in needed a mature voice that Elisif can trust and bounce ideas off, and ultimately Henrietta provides that- it also offers evidence for how shed development from what we get in the base game. She's grown and matured as a Jarl, but just as she's gotten competent at that job they've gone and moved the goal posts on her!

Glad you liked the descriptions, I've visited a lot of country houses (thanks national trust!) and a lot of stuff there is too valuable to throw away but too difficult to repair, so it has this very lived in 'shabby wealthy' feel to it that I felt would be perfect for a royal Palace.

Elisif's relationship with Beren was a difficult one to write, as I wanted past history, physical appearance and matching personalities to have a weight which was alluded to but not the outright stated main justification. Placing the overwhelming emphasis upon Elisif's political comprehension and decision making, its consequences and the wisdom of it. In the past she was the trophy wife of a puppet king with an ambitious vampire courtier which resulted in assassination and a costly civil war. Consequently, the desire for a physically capable swordsman who can personally defend her and the throne means that in Beren the two personal and political streams are combined. At other times, like his alleged position as a unifier, the personal and political are distinct and the sticky issue of divorcing Aela for Elisif could go either way, and the sensibility of that decision is greyer.

How political sensible her conclusions and how much this is Elisif's retrospective justifications for physical attraction is up to the reader to decide. They are obviously a very young, physically attractive couple with matching personalities, and both have an angry streak and a certain political naivety which they share in common. However, we are already beginning to see a difference between the two- Elisif's chilled anger and resolution to enact a cold-hearted violent revenge against Beren's white hot rage….

Finally, poor Raynald just can't catch a break! Abused by Beren, then Bolgeir and finally Elisif. The poor man probably deserves some gratitude and a win at some point. We'll see what I can do.


	7. Chapter 7: the legacy of the Dragonborn

**Chapter 7- The Legacy of the Dragonborn**

**Beric III**

Beric had collapsed with an animal roar when he had heard of his brother's death, falling to the floor as his legs gave way under him. Tears fell from eyes, and he screamed of his loss. He shouted for those who come running to leave him, anger and hate forcing magic into his voice as he sent his friends and servant scurrying with an order that froze the air, snuffed out the candles and Hearthfire and smashed in their skulls like an axe with the force of its command. They ran screaming as migraines burst in their brains, and left him cold and alone in the dark. Sobbing and curled on the cold flagstones.

Eventually a nervous servant came, carrying a sealed message from the Jarl, and the assassin's blade. Two guards came with him, bearing Erik's corpse wrapped in a table cloth for his winding sheet. The letter announced the capture and torture of the assassin, and what they had learnt so far. It gave little comfort besides stating that the prisoner was well guarded, the barest of information, and reading the transcription of the madman's ravings seemed like a sick joke. The decision to hide cicero's name, and his motive, to be forever remembered as the man who had killed the Last Dragonborn, and ensure everlasting fame as his killed. He had crumbled the letter onto the floor and ran.

That had been three days ago. Three days since he fled to the office, yelling at servants, writing horrible letters and piling up papers, though his exhausted mind wandered with random torture whatever the task. Ulfric's' skull had mocked him with his grinning until he had thrown it into the fireplace, shattering it. Nevertheless, the thoughts remained in his unquiet head as he slumped behind his desk, on the morning of the third day. His hands shook, splattering a fine spray of black ink on the letter before him, betraying his thoughts to Serana and Captain Volgier as unseeing bloodshot red eyes stared at the ruined letter before him, half-finished. He thought of something else, but the breeze that blew through his window whispered of the cities fall, and he knew that in this dawn air the streets of the Winds District were steaming, wet and shining with blood that puddled the streets like water after the refreshing spring rains, next to the stiffening corpses of those who had been caught out by the mob. Closing the windows did little, even his home smelt of death after the knife that killed his brother had been brought to him, alongside Erik's body. He had thrown that cursed leaf-shaped and bloodied blade into the bottom of his trunk, and had ordered Erik's flesh boiled away from his bones, so that his body could be sent home for burial by his family and clan.

He jerked back, looked down and balled up the letter in sudden fury, his anger boiling over as his tired brain tumbled in a flat spin as he abused himself harshly over the smallest of errors as he compared the neat copy to his scribbled and untidy rough draft. It was headed with the wrong date and with a violent toss flew it into the cold fireplace to join its fellows, ignoring the look Captain Volgier and Serana gave each other, daring them to challenge him so he would have someone to scream at for a few precious moments of peace. He looked down, frowning at the letter. It was the 10th, not the 9th he corrected himself savagely as he picked up the quill to once again resume copying out the letter.

_10__th__ Hearthfire, 4E 201_

_From Praefect (retd.) Beric Stone-Strider to Thane Erikur of Solitude_

_Greetings,_

_Dear thane Erikur,_

_It is with great sadness that I must report to you the death of your beloved son Erik. I know that there are no words that I could offer to dull the pain you must feel as a father, and that any attempt on my part to reduce your grief will ring hollow to you. I must nevertheless offer my heartfelt sympathies to you at this time of loss. It is my intention to inform you of the events of that day, in as honest and as true an account as possible. I therefore tell you now, please, put down this letter and only return to it when you are strong enough to bear to hear of the manner of your son's death at the Dragonborn's side…._

A deliberate cough came from across the room, beside the fireplace. He looked up briefly at Captain Volgier's, who was nodding at open door, through which the gently chiming of half past had echoed.

"No denying it now. She's late."

Beric grunted and returned to the letter, having half-forgotten why Captain Volgier was here in the first place. It was too late now to regret the commanding tone of the letter-cum-ultimatum he had sent Aela, almost taunting her down from her lair in Jorrvaskr. Not that he was the only one on edge, the energy of all in the house was manic, filled with fits and starts. Serana fidgeted with her hands in her lap as she sat at her desk, exhausted. Her favourite book lay open before her, but she left it unheeded as she stared of into space, and he wished he could be alone with her and pull her close. Her gaze was distracted, watching Captain Volgier with catlike disinterest. Doubtless the smells carried by the breeze were as distracting for her as for him.

Beric felt vaguely guilty that he was not putting in more effort at entertaining the Captain. But this was not a social call, and he was in no particular mood to entertain. Volgier for his part seemed happy to wander aimlessly about the office, looking with curiosity at the clutter of stacked papers on Beren's desk. His eyes ran over the dagger Nettlebane, sniffed at fragments of Ulfric Stormcloak's skull that lay in pieces in the fireplace and ran his eyes across the titles of the books on the shelves, esoteric works on the Elder Scrolls, Vampires, Werewolves, Dragons and Daedric Cults that unnerved and intrigued him in equal measure. In his hands he carried a document pouch, on which his fingers rapped some half-remembered marching tune, a tick which did little to improve Beric's temper. Aela was late, how dare she be late for this.

"Perhaps she's just delayed, the unrest has left the streets filled with knifemen, barricades, to say nothing of the debris from burning houses…." Serana murmured awkwardly, trailing away at her awkward attempt to fill the silence died.

"No rioter or looter dared get within a hundred feet of Jorrvaskr. No one was stupid enough to cause trouble within eyesight of that place, and no one would think to stop a party of Companions in the street." Beric snapped, throwing down his quill to splatter black in across the letter, ruining yet another copy.

"For what good it did the city. Did they try to calm the unrest? No, they just bolted their gates and hid behind them even when we came pleading for aide. Had we posted a member of The Companions to each street corner and crossroads then all this nonsense would have burnt out like an ember in the rain." Volgier grumbled before sitting on the little writing desk beside the cold fireplace. They ignored him.

"She's upset Beric, she's just lost her husband, and The Companions their Harbinger. Besides, The Companions live and die by their traditions, they have no master but themselves. Who would order them out to stand guard?" Serana replied in a kind, even tone that nevertheless betrayed her irritation at the way Beric and Aela always managed to see the worse in each other.

"Imagine that. We're all upset and tired and…. whatever…Serana." he finished lamely as she crossed her arms and looked away with a disappointed shake of the head. silence descended for a long moment once more.

"How long should we wait?" He asked no one in particular, pulling a rough literary of his brother's funeral before him, before pushing it away and rubbing his eyes.

"She has custody of Beren's body, we can't plan a funeral without the Companions agreeing to release it. They will want to carry out their own ceremonies beforehand most likely." Volgier sighed, and Serana nodded in agreement.

"They burned the previous Harbinger's body…Kodlak? Yes, Kodlak's body in a private ceremony, why should they release Beren's?"

"Because he was the Dragonborn, the city is filled with veterans and refuges from the dragon crisis and the civil war. The Companion owe it to all of Skyrim to let them say goodbye to their hero."

"I suppose so..." she said uneasily, though Volgeir looked unconvinced.

There was a quiet knock on the door and grateful but frustrated for the distraction Beric looked up.

"Aela has arrived." Cassius Gallenus announced smoothly.

"Well?"

"She's waiting in the Hall."

"Is she now?" Beric said to himself, before responding to the Steward in a clear firm voice. "Well then, invite her in. And the others- Durag, and Lydia. They should be here for Beric as well." Gallenus hesitated for a moment. Beric glanced up, and he paled when he caught the tired feral look in Beric's eyes. With a nodded "sir," he vanished down the corridor. There was silence for a moment, and then drumming feet and the door crashed open.

Aela the Huntress had arrived, with that pair of dumb muscle twins in tow behind her, the two of them clattering and crashing in their richly etched ceremonial plate armour. But it was at the sight of Aela that Beric was stunned into silence, and he concealed a sob of shock. She still wore her feasting finery, the linen now brown and soaked with blood from where she had cradled Beren's dying body in her arms. There were deep bags under her wild eyes, and blood still caked under her fingernails.

"How dare you summon me, to my home! How dare you send servants to fetch me before you like a dog for a stick. How dare you order me in my own house!" she screamed at Beric, eyes flashing.

"Aela, I'm sure Beric meant no offence. Now that things have calmed for the time being, there are things we must attend to…certain decisions that must be made…." Serana trailed away awkwardly at Aela's enraged stare.

"This doesn't concern you."

The door opened again, and Lydia appeared, sleeves rolled and hands raw from polishing Erik's armour in a last farewell to a brave man, followed by Durag, lost and aimless. Beric had not seen much of either of them, he had been too busy missing meals and hiding in the office or his chamber.

"Oh…I'm sorry, were we interrupting?" Durag asked in a voice that was all tired pleasantries, looking at the angry faces that filled the room.

"No Durag…We were just getting started." Beric replied after a pause, ignoring Aela's glare. He gestured to Captain Volgier, who stood quietly by the fireplace, a leather document case clasped in his scarred hands. Aela turned and noticed him for the first time since entering the room. She blushed and offered her forearm in a warrior's embrace, which was enthusiastically accepted by the Guard Captain in a rush of words that had a half-practiced ring to them.

"Aela, the Jarl extends his sincere commiserations and deepest sympathies, he would be here himself, were it not for the business of city and hold that keep him in Dragonsreach. He directed me to ask your forgiveness, and hopes you understand, in the circumstances-"

"Aye, Volgier Aye, I understand, my thanks to the Jarl. Tell him I have always respected his strength and leadership."

Captain Volgier turned to look at the hulking twins that flanked her nodding to each in turn.

"Farkas, Vilkas, I am honoured to meet such fine warriors."

Farkas grunted ignoring the little man's praises, and Vilkas shrugged at his brother's response. Meanwhile, uneasy amongst the Companion twins who crowded the door, Durag who had been ignored in all this pushed through and clapped a gentle hand on Beric shoulder, for a moment of silence. He then turned, leant and pulled Serana into an awkward hug before he standing against the wall of books with a tired sigh. Beric looked around at them, Serana, Lydia, Durag, Aela and him. The if Rihad and Beren were here then it would have been just like it was before the war.

"Now that the pleasantries are over and dealt with, maybe we can get to work?" Beric asked tartly, his voice cutting through the tired babble of friends and acquaintances. He gestured at Captain Volgier, who was quickly becoming overwhelmed with greeting and meeting so many famous names in one place, his enthusiasm and good will quickly becoming wearing amongst the grieving.

"Ah…certainly Sir." He opened the pouch and drew out the will, having been witnessed and signed by the Jarl and members of his court, the original copy had been left for safe keeping in Dragonsreach. Hands trembling a little despite himself, Volgier began to read.

"This being the last Will and testament of Beren Stone-Strider…"

In a grave, clear voice he read the terms of the will to the assembled men and women. Aela was made executor of his estate. His closest followers were all to receive 10,000 golden septims while he and Aela would receive an additional 10,000, leaving them with richest that outstripped some jarls. It would doubtless be a good day for Balgruuf when he learnt how much his coffers stood to gain from levying his 'lawful and just' death tax. Beric suppressed a snort, hating the twisted sense of humour that filled his mind, gripping his hands so hard his nails bit into the flesh of his palms as he thought of how many of the beneficiaries that had been named were now themselves dead. He fidgeted awkwardly, too distracted and too tired to concentrate.

"…In addition to my other bequest, I leave to my dear friend Durag the Dwemer Centurion we recovered together from the ruins of Nchardak, for his future research..."

He tried to settle himself, folding his hands and leaning back in his chair as looked around the room at the little band that Beren had assembled make his destiny reality, remembering the last time the whole party had gathered together in this room. Almost half those who had been there half a year ago were dead or missing how. Lydia was still here, tears in her eyes and muscled arms folded as she stood proudly to the left of Beren's desk. She had been the first to join them, the original housecarl, and had been with him every step and walked out unscathed. Now her last duty was to polish the armour of her thane and his squire for their funerals. Doubtless she would remain in Whiterun, find that good man she always promised herself, buy a house, and then train a new generation of warriors in sword and shield and spear. Durag was also still here, still leaning against the wall, still smelling of burnt hair and alchemical agents. It would not last. He would doubtless return to Solstheim, come the spring, to help his father on their mad quest to rebuild that Dwemer airship found. He wished him well. Jordis was missing but alive and well in Solitude. Argis was pensioned off into retirement with one leg, drinking himself to sleep every night in a forgotten swamp-town. And then his eye wandered over to the empty table by the fireplace. Rihad was missing and long dead, as was Valdimar and Rayya. and now Erik and Beren had joined them.

"…to my loving wife Aela, I leave my set of Skyforged steel greatsword, arming sword and dagger, to ensure such weapons remain in hands of a warrior worthy of their martial legacy..."

His eyes meander over to Aela as she accepted this princely gift with calm gratitude. It would be Aela who would change things. He had left Beren with her for protection from the skooma dealers and gangsters of Whiterun who had forced him to flee for his life to Winterhold. Aela had though little of him running to save his life then. He had thought little of the woman who had mostly ignored his brother's affection until he had become dragonborn. And when she found that out, she had then exploited his impressionable younger brother by recruiting him to the circle, and turning him into a werewolf. He had hatred her for that, and when he had persuaded Beren to rid himself of that curse she repaid that hatred with the threat of a duel. Things had only been settled when Beren revealed he had chosen as his wife and ordered that they would get along, and that order had maintained a superficial politeness between the two of them. Now she sat pregnant with their unborn child, a child whose birth would be toasted by all as the continuation of the Dragonborn's line. Perhaps the child would help keep things civil between them, and he would be uncle to a new Dragonborn, the man who had bounced them child on his knee and taught them swordplay and courage. Doubtless their child would one day wield his father's weapons.

"…finally, is my wish that my three Elder Scrolls be turned over to the College of Winterhold for study, for the benefit of the empire and its peoples..."

He felt a flicker of surprise at the mention of Winterhold, of his warm memories and perhaps a future with Serana there. For now, she sat impassively, arms and legs crossed, shoulders slumped, a curtain of dark hair hiding her face. She had joined them during Volkihar uprising when Beren was a rising star and he just a mage serving in the Dawnguard without two septims to rub together, and had served as their magical advisor ever since. What would become of her now? Would she hide away in the frozen north again, travel to Winterhold and its famous college, immerse herself into studies and disappear as she had promised Beren and Aela whenever talk had turned to the future. She had always begged him to join her, to forget the world and politics after this 'damn fool war was over.' He looked at Aela. She would be happy to see forgotten in the frozen north, and he remembered well how her vision of the child's life had no room for him in it.

"…thus concludes my last will and testament." Volgier finished, and rolled up the densely scripted parchment in the silence that followed. No one knew what to say, or had anything much to say to anyone. Beren was dead, and never coming back. These past few days it had been easy to half imagine he was still alive, just off somewhere on an adventure, braving the wilds of Skyrim by himself. They knew that was wrong, and that fiction was harder to maintain day by day as Beren slipped away piece by piece. But there had been a feeling of reversibility to it, as though with the strength of gods and men he would come back if they just tried hard enough, worked hard enough than that loss could be undone, would be undone through sheer skill and rage. But now, there was a finality to it all. With the reading of the will a piece had fallen into place, a bolt thrown shut behind him on the gate that stood between life and death and Beren was irretrievably lost.

"There is however one final issue, the funeral of the Last Dragonborn." Volgier ventured in that silence "the Jarl wants to know your funeral plans. There are issues to be discussed, given the unrest his death provoked." Beric thought for a moment. Beren had never mentions how he wanted to be buried, what young man does? There was no family crypt for the stone-striders in the many Whiterun halls of the dead. Their mother had died and been buried in an unmarked pauper's grave, like generations of their family before.

"…His body should be laid to rest as all other Harbingers that have gone before, in the flames of the Skyforge. There is no reason to break that sacred tradition now." Farkas stated dutifully.

"Aye. A private funeral in Jorrvaskr then. As is traditional for the Harbinger, watch over by his shield-brothers and sisters. Behind our walls he would be laid to rest with all honour, and to meddle with convention would tell the rabble we care for their opinions." Aela muttered, looking at the floor. Beric was enraged at this casual barring of him from Beren's funeral and the sour words he was thinking slipped, half-conscious from his lips.

"if Beren cared for traditions or conventions, he wouldn't have married you." he muttered just loud enough for Aela to hear.

"Do you have something you want to say, ice brain?" She twisted like a kicked dog and spat at him through clenched and bared teeth, an act he found more amusing than frightening, even as hatred kindled within him for this woman.

"I said that Beren was more than just the Harbinger of the Companions. He was the Thane of five Holds, he was the defender of Whiterun, the man who raised legions by his mere presence. Thousands flocked to this city just to walk the same streets as him, to live in the city that slept under his personal protection. His veterans crowd every corner. Would you keep them out? Would you keep us from saying our goodbyes?"

Durag nodded in agreement, but it was Serana who added her voice to his.

"Beric's right, I don't think you should do this Aela. You can't hide away Skyrim's hero and not let people see him one last time."

She laughed harshly as Serana's last words, and pointed at her.

"You expect me to believe that _you_ care for the people? even if I did believe it, that you care for those mad men who have run riot these past days? You would desecrate your brother's funeral with their presence! They cannot be trusted to pay the proper respects, and Volgier said, given the circumstances a more understated funeral might be sensible."

Serana opened her mouth to respond, but Beric jumped up and yelled over her.

"Because Beren was the one man who brought Skyrim together! Before Ulfric broke it again. He is _the Last Dragonborn_ Aela! The divines will send no others, and ever man and woman will want to be there to tell the story of how they passed by the body of man many of them look on as near a god. If you hide Beren from them, they will never forgive you."

Aela brought up her arms before her, splattered with the brown stains of old blood as her voice cracked, tears welling in her eyes even as anger and rage burned her face as red as her twisted mane of hair.

"What do I care? You can't even bear to look at Beren's body. Look at his blood on my hands. Look at his blood! Would you have the Grey-Manes and the Battle-Borns come and stare at his body? would you have that demented jester brought out? Would your turn him over to the mob for justice."

She snorted, and threw her hands up, waving them away like annoying flies and the gesture seemed to calm her for a while. She spoke again, in a calmer, sweeter voice.

"Look at the pair of you. Beric, retired from the legion after a single campaign, still calling yourself a Praefect as you order a patrol around the fence line of my house. And you Serana, siting in this office all day plotting, thinking yourselves so clever as your surround yourself with these books. Leave this to those who know how these things work. I planned Kodlak's funeral, I don't need your help in planning my Husband's. Who knows, you two might learn a thing or two."

Serana smiled at Aela tone, and replied in her own voice, mirroring Aela's own sickly-sweet voice at first, though it quickly became as cold and harsh as the moons themselves.

"It would seem to me the Companions could stand to learn a thing or two themselves. It would seem to me that to lose one Harbinger to assassination is unfortunate, but to lose two looks like incompetence."

A scream of rage filled the room, as Aela swung across the desk at her, and the office descended into an anarchy of flying paper and screaming as people pulled the two apart.

* * *

It took hours for a plan to be approved after Serana and Aela were separated, though they sniped at each other through written message and words screamed through slamming doors, but in the end, it was settled. Tomorrow, Beren's body would lay on a bier half way up the causeway to Jorrvaskr for Whiterun to pay the appropriate respects, with space in Jorrvaskr forecourt for the crowd to gather. At midday a eulogy would be performed by the Jarl after neither he or Aela was willing to share or give up the honour. Then, carried on the shields of the Circle Beren would be taken to the Skyforge for a private cremation. They sent word with runners for the news-readers, and the city slowly as the funeral was announced.

Work done, Aela left under the guard of Farkas and Vilkas to Jorrvaskr. Meanwhile, Beric sat alone in the library late into the night, staring into the unlit fireplace nursing a half-drunk potion of calming. The potion ticked his throat, he felt thirsty and regretted he had not thought to hunt down a servant for supper before settling into his chair. He chided himself for his foolishness, but he was too tired, and it was too late now to go through all that effort now. A thought niggled at him, and he had spoken of it privately to both Durag and Serana. Durag had shaken his head, rejecting the theory out of hand. Serana had listened calmly to his reasoning, to how Durag had disagreed with him, and was surprised when she had agreed with Durag, and asked if he had been sleeping well. Of course, he hadn't! how could he sleep when his brother had been assassinated? Serana smiled calmly. He was looking for explanations, for a reason why this had happened. Sometimes there is none she answered sadly. She had read the guard reports. The jester was sick, and the madman had decided to kill the dragonborn for the sheet glory and thrill of it. and somehow, he had succeeded. No one would have hired a mad-man as an assassin, no one serious about the job anyway. Had Beren has a single second of warning, he could have shouted the man to pieces.

He or Serana could get the secrets out of him, he was sure. They were both skilled in Illusion enough to break any man. But he knew that would never work. the Jarl would take it as an insult that he would think he could get more from the man than his interrogators could, and would not trust them to restrain themselves. Their magics would likely destroy the man's broken mind, and any confession would be as reliable as dirt. He sighed, and drank the rest of his potion. Perhaps they would get the answers he needed. Perhaps he was simply wishing, and angry, and in his inactivity imagining an alternative preferable to the unpleasant truth. He fell away to a restless sleep, Bloody nightmares haunted his dreams, and when dawn came autumn sun burned his eyes, waking him with the dawn.

The next few hours passed in a blur, he dressed, fed and shaved and pulled himself together as best he could, pushing his nagging suspicions to the back of his mind. The house was busy, and when they left, he walked in a trance as he squinted in the bright sunlight, having left behind his broad brimmed hat as to provincial to wear to a funeral. Serana walked next to him, so close she could place a gentle hand on his elbow from time to time. He barely acknowledged the mourners, the men and mer who threw flowers and shouted prayers for him and his house. He gripped his hands into fists so tight his nails pierced his palms and scabs formed, crusted with blood. He had always known this day would come, but had never expected it to be so soon.

The noise in Jorrvaskr forecourt was incredible, as prayer and hymns and crying filled the air. Beric's other senses were assault as well, for the first time in days the smell of fire and blood was hidden by the floral scents of funeral bouquets, burning incense from votive offerings and the less pleasant odours of a forgotten, rotting feast crushed underfoot into the cobbles and the ranks smell of sweat from the massed citizenry of Whiterun. The square had been cleaned as best as time allowed. Even so, many of the feasting tables and benches remained, and now groaned under the mass of mourners. There were even a few enterprising merchants, who having done a brisk trade before the ceremony began were now selling spaces to stand on their carts or barrels. The mourners were packed tight as apples in a barrel as they watched and waited, or else queued to pass in procession around their hero. Suddenly Beric's feet found the steps, and they began to climb.

People moved out of their way wordlessly as they ascended up the causeway, murmuring their prayers and apologies, and Beric unable to face were they were going looked at them with curiosity. Imperial colours were much in evidence, and here and there a few Stormcloak veterans had come to pay their respects. Here a Breton legionnaire carrying an amulet of Talos in his spare hand patted his shoulder as he went past, murmuring his respects in a solitude accent as he placed the talisman to dangle from a sword hilt thrown at the Dragonborn's feet. Then an Imperial, braver than most in blades armour but trapped behind a mass of mourners handed Beric his sword over the heads of crowd, for Beric to place upon the bier. Finally, a Nord with warrior's rings in his beard and a tattered blue cloak broke his sword under his foot and placed it upon heaped tributes that lay at Beren's feet, as he fell and begged forgiveness for him and his comrades reneging on their oaths to the gods. But these simple tributes from former allies and enemies were outnumbered by the mass of common people. Merchants and citizens and farmers in yellow and green and brown homespun wool whose homes and businesses they had saved mingled, throwing pouches of copper and silver coins, and bouquets of flowers, as sacrifice and memory to Beren. They were joined by the thanes of Whiterun hold, wearing fine spun tundra cotton coloured with imported dyes as they came bearing their tributes. Amren came bearing his family sword and placed the heirloom blade upon the pile, it was joined by a necklace of golden rings and a large torc, of two serpentine dragons entwined. Nazeem came next, and piled gifts around the bier, leaving pots of burning incense from Hammerfell, chains of silver and weapons with gold etched blades and hilts heavy with garnets. It was expected that mourners make a show of their family's wealth through the value of a funeral gift, but he never did have good taste.

They were here.

He looked up, over the massed piles of weapons and shield and armour left as a warrior's tribute by Stormcloaks and Imperials alike. Of gold and silver coins thrown in mourning by merchants, of lilies and all the flowers of the forest gathered and heaped about him by those who lacked wealth to spare. The mound of tributes grew, and as it grew it pushed the mourners further and further away. But still, they piled up, yard by yard until half the landing was filled. It was difficult to see him now, but there Beren lay. Clad head to toe in the ceremonial armour of The Companions, elegantly worked with scrolling nordic designs, reinforced by layers of furs, boiled leathers and mail. His hands were folded upon his breast, atop the great axe of Ysgramor that he had ordered forged anew, his head pillowed by Ysgramor's own shield. Beric looked up at the face of his brother, his face at rest, his eyes closed in sleep. With his face in profile, he looked like a king of old, graven onto the wall of a temple or tomb, or stamped onto a coin. He remembered how Beren used to run in the streets of the Shambles, barefoot and in a tattered tunic, waving a stick and proclaiming it the great axe Wuuthrad as he ran after boys twice his age through the mud and piss and shit filled streets. He had been big for his age, but he would always come back bleeding and bruised and he would cast his spells and heal him, vanishing the cuts and bruises with a murmur as he scolded his brother for his foolishness. The high neck of the armour hid the dreadful mortal wound, the killing stroke and Beric was grateful for that. He could not see it, did not want to, and at Serana's soft touch to his elbow he looked away, blinking away tears.

He placed the sword the imperial had given him, and added his own tributes, carried by eight servants from the treasure room hidden beneath the estate. Harkon's Sword, followed by Miraak's were thrown at Beren's feet. Then Ulfric's own war axe, followed by the claws of scales of the great dragon Mirmulnir, the first to fall, then trophies from Sahloknir cut down at Kyne's Gove, and Nahagliiv, killed by Beren and Rihad at Rorikstead. Then loot from Aldiun himself, scales black and shining like jet or obsidian, and claws and teeth as long and wicked as Daedric blades, retrieved from Sovngarde itself, where Beric's soul now dwelt. All this was thrown down as tribute. There it would stay, until the ceremony had ended, where it would be gathered up, and together with Beren's ashes entombed in newly-built mausoleum. Then they would stay on display alongside tapestry and wall carving commemorating his victories, a reminder to Skyrim and all of Tamriel the legacy of the last Dragonborn.

Their respected paid, they left.

Standing before the statue of Talos in the area reserved for the jarl and his guests Beric took the best wishes from the finest families of Whiterun hold, carefully ignoring Aela's presence. She stood closer to the podium where Jarl would make his speech. Beric attracted legion veterans, merchants and the common man, but he did not miss how more and nobler families came to search out Aela, the wife of the dragonborn. He knew that Aela was a legend in her own right, and had been famous before either of them. It was not for nothing that she had won the title of the huntress, famed for spear and bow across the province. By comparison his fame was a minor thing, he had spent much of the last two years skulking and researching. It was true that he had stormed the gates at Windhelm, but most Nords disapproved of the sneaking and double dealing that had led to the fall of the city of Riften, and as a magic user he was automatically suspicious.

The companions took up their station around the body, and pushed the last few mourners back down the causeway. A line of guards arrived around the podium as Balgruuf took his position, while more stood at the bottom of the causeway as Jarl Balgruuf began his speech. Beren barely heard it and from the snatches he caught did not care for it at all, aggrieved into boredom and disinterest. His eyes wandered up, and he watched the slow tread of the bow armed Companions who patrolled the walls of Jorrvaskr. His tired head consumed with half-formed thoughts as the sight of the Jarl filled him with doubts, and he wondered what information Balgruuf's torturers had extracted from the jester. By all accounts the man was still babbling away about his mother and flowers and horkers and other such nonsense. And that bequest to the college itched like a fleabite.

Balgruuf's speech by now had become background noise, and there was a bored air about the crowd. Having been pushed back from the body, many of them still carried their tributes, and the large crowd soon became restless. A few enterprising merchants started hawking their trade, and after a long day standing around, they soon gathered a boisterous air around them as they toasted the Dragonborn's life with overflowing horns of Black-briar mead. Here and there men and women lost interest and trickled away at the outskirts, while others pushed forward, arguing with the guards to be allowed to place their own trophies while the Jarl spoke. His speech was not good, filled with platitudes of loss and sorrow and he wondered why he had ever agreed to this compromise. Others muttered resentful remarks as they grew bored and angry. Many of the noble families began to edge away and make their excuses as the speech dragged on, and Beren's war exploits began to be extolled. Those clans who had suffered from supporting the losing side were now much in evidence by their absence, while the Grey-Manes had never appeared at all, opting to send servants and squires to pay their respects and deliver their tribute as the majority of the family left for their country estate, only Olfina and Vignar bravely opting to remain behind.

The Jarl finished, and there was polite applause and scattered cheers, and all eyes turned to the eight members of the companions. There was an awkward pause as the chosen eight stood around trying to find a clear path through the mound of tributes, which now stood pile a spearlength deep and rising from ankle to shoulder height around the body. A few wags in the crowd with their tongues loosened by drink called out sarcastic encouragement. A number of others started to laugh at how easily the companions, never renowned as the smartest of fighters, had been defeated by a dead man with a bent sword and a bouquet of wilting pansies. The line of guardsmen looked uncertain, as their captain tried to steady them, to ignore the calls of the crowd.

Eventually, one of the Circle, and from this distance Beric could not be certain who, waded in like a swimmer. Frustrated and embarrassed by the taunts they decided to set an example to the rest of them, unwilling to bear the insults a moment longer. Anger and embarrassment lent their arms a callous strength, arms pushing the piled tributes away, legs kicking weapons and trampling flowers underfoot. The crowd rumbled its disapproval at this, and the many turned and shouted something, but whatever it was, it was lost in the noise and the screams that followed. The treasured, piled like snow and ice upon Skyrim's mountains began to slip and slide over each other. Just as an avalanche is started by a single footfall, so did Beren's treasures slip away, first one by one and then in a wave, a surging flow of flowers and weapons and gold and silver and amulets and talismans, more treasure than many had seen or would ever see if they had lived for a hundred lifetimes. The Companion fell, losing his footing to disappear amongst the flow. Sword and weapons came clattering down the slope. Dragon's claws, followed by a golden circlet heavy with rubies and emeralds, bouncing on its rim.

The crowd surged with a roar as the wealth slipped away, the line of guardsmen utterly overwhelmed. Many carried their own tributes, and they hurried up the slope to catch those which had been left others came forward empty handed, either of their own will or Bourne forward by the crowd. An Imperial, almost as big as Beren had been burst through the struggling line of guardsmen. He was bald, and wore a red bandana and tattered red tunic which stretched across his broad back as he picked up the circlet, before standing and waving it over his head as others followed the gap he made, holding it aloft as the hands around him surged up to grasp it, and he hurried up the slope to the body, grabbing coins and other treasurers. Beren did not know if it was loyalty or greed that led him to distance himself from the crowd, that inspired his speed and determination.

An arrow crashed through his eye to burst in a spray of pink and brain through the back of his skull and he fell dead upon the steps. The crowd quieted, screamed and then roared forwards, towards Jorrvaskr's battlements, now lined with archers levelling bows and nocking arrows. The scream of 'Murderers!' went up, enthusiastically taken up as a crowd of tens of thousands baying for blood. The line of struggling guardsmen disappeared into the crowd, pulled down and ripped apart by the crowd. Arrows zipped down from Jorrvaskr. One of the companions picked up Beren's body and ran up the stairs, covered by the other members of the circle. The gates swinging shut behind them.

The crowd surged up the steps, headless in its desire for wealth and revenge. Beric looked around him, the screaming and the yells as arrows found their mark and javelins flew from Jorrvaskr settled old certainties about him. He knew the sounds of battle well, and that clarity cleared his mind. He looked about him. It was just them, the jarl and his guard. Looking over the surging crowd he saw that there was never going to be an option for them to slip away to Kyne's Rest through that. Jorrvaskr was besieged, and they maybe had seconds before the crowd descended upon them.

"Quickly! To Dragonsreach! To the Palace!" he called, grabbing Serana, pushing and pulling those around him who were to shocked by the scenes before them to move as they watched the treasures of the dragonborn disappear into the hands of beggars, veterans and apprentice-boys. Balgruuf turned at his words, and after sparing a glance at the scene before him, nodded and issued his own orders. The Jarl and his guests, surrounded by a small party of guards turned and ran for the safety of their citadel, and left their city to the madness of the mob.

* * *

Whiterun was burning. It had burnt all night, and Beric was sure it would burn all day too. Some of the homes that now lay in ashes had belonged to former Stormcloaks, put to flame by demobbed veterans. But many were the homes of the innocent and nervous, who had picked up bow and arrow as rumour ran riot, and in losing a shaft at passing shadows had picked a fight with the mob, and were been burnt alive for their trouble. Some were simply the victims of opportunists, settling old feuds. Other buildings burned, storehouses and tax offices, protesting the Jarl's indecision and the companion's brutality while the starving and the drunken looting granaries and taverns. In the absence of news, people created their own truth, and fought to the death over the lies they told.

Beric counted every single death and arson as a personal failure. It did not matter to him that there were not many fires in comparison to other cities he had seen looted and burned. Whiterun's formerly tense days of peace were now once again filled with panic, looting and murder, the nights with fire and blood as Beren's pyre relit the countless feuds of Whiterun. It smelt like Oblivion too, as the fitful autumn winds that hurried from distant icy mountains across farm and moor stirred the standards that hung from Whiterun's towers now swept ash and ember across streets filled with groaning wounded and still corpses. The winds had raced up to him that night, carrying these scents of a faltering city; smells of ash and blood and roasted human flesh. But he did not need the scents carried on the freshening breeze to tell him what had happened this past night, he knew already, had seen it with his own eyes as he stood from the highest tower of Dragonsreach, watching the houses burn. When he had looked out over the city, it had reminded him of the fall of Windhelm, and he felt his brother's peace ebbing away.

Their flight to Dragonsreach had been a close-run thing, only the discipline of the Jarl's personal guard in executing a fighting retreat and the promise of easier treasures for the mob elsewhere had allowed them to get away. For much of the afternoon the mob had been content to attempt to carry Jorrvaskr by storm, and Beric watched from Dragonsreach's ramparts as The Companions massacred the mob from their walls while the circle hurriedly cremated Beren's body upon the Skyforge. Aela, looking down from the battlements had demanded a bow to defend herself. Balgruuf told her she could have the one he had given her husband.

In the early evening it seemed that the city remembered it had a jarl, and a mob of nobles, merchants and peasants alike gathered outside Dragonsreach's gates, loudly demanding justice from the Companions for their dead and injured and that the archer be handed over to them. The Jarl had appeared and through half-opened gates had addressed the crowd Nord to Nord, promising an investigation and that justice would follow its course in due time. The crowd would not be dissuaded. They wanted blood, they wanted it now. Then they demanded that the jester be handed over to them immediately, that surely there could be no doubt about his guilt. Balgruuf refused.

The crowd had surged forward with a scream to storm the palace and Balgruuf closed his gates quickly and ordered most of his guards off the walls, hoping to calm the situation behind tough oaken gates and stout stone walls, which the crowd, lacking axes, ladders or a ram pelted the walls with stones and rotting vegetables, and the carcasses of slaughter animals. Jarl Balgruuf suffered this indignity with quite indifference and the crowd and especially the clans amongst them, grew bored and tired and retired to their homes. There they called their veterans and warriors to their halls, while much of the mob left for the plains district. It had been in those quiet hours of the dusk that Beric had left with Serana, Aela and fifty of the Jarl's Guard to return to Kyne's Rest in a dense fast-moving pack bristling with shields, spears and torches. All the great families had barred their doors to wait out the storm turning the formerly pleasant district into a winding nest of fortresses that passed an long an uneasy night, the streets that surrounded the estates darkened lanes that none ventured into unless the bravest of their houses, and even then under heavy guard.

Down the hill, the streets of the Plains District were abandoned to the mob as drunken roving of knifemen, retired legionnaires and Stormcloak returned home re-armed with looted weapons from Whiterun's numerous Blacksmiths and Artificers, and a few from Beren's own bier. Bloodthirsty band, encouraged by the absence of the guard which had retreated to their towers and guardhouses pulled families from their beds and put them to the sword according to their perceived loyalties. Many rounded the corner of a street with their blades out and ready, preferring to cut down their neighbour by accident rather than be caught unawares, while archers sitting in the top floored loosed at shadows. Dawn would reveal many a lonely drunk left to die in the gutter with an arrow or stab wound in their belly. In the days to come stories would spread throughout the city of the best and worst of that night. Of the Dunmer servant turned thief who been released from Balgruuf's and mercifully granted his life. He had killed his neighbours with an Akaviri greatsword forged of precious ebony, and had last been seen fleeing on a stolen horse into the night. Or the Altmer champion in gilded armour standing guard over a chapel of Akatosh filled with the faithful seeking sanctuary from the mob. He stood alone in the doorway night and day, defending it with a blade that shone like starlight and a shield that burned like the sun.

Nor was such bravery and brutality limited to the Plains district. The Battle-Born blamed Vignar for Berens murder and having rallied a small army to their cause they rushed the Grey-Manes estate. With thrown torches and a few enchanted fire arrows they put the house to flame, and cut down the gate with great axes. That night both families suffered heavily. Jon Battle-born was last seen cutting down Vignar in hand to hand combat and leaving him bleeding out on his doorstep before running into the burning building, vowing that no Grey-Mane would escape his blade. In the days to come would be found headless and handless amongst the burnt-out ruins of his estate. Vignar's, bloodied and dying was castrated and crucified to the doors of his burning hall, his manhood stuffed down his mouth to gag his screams while Olfina disappeared like many others that night, presumably raped, murdered and hidden in a shallow grave. As the great families watched the estate burn, they passed even more brutal orders onto their watchmen.

Having returned home Beric felt like a rat in a trap as he paced nervous and adrift in his chamber, the smells of the burning city filling his nostrils. As he changed out of his sweaty and ashen clothes, throwing them onto the floor before opening the lid of his trunk to reveal the semi-organised chaos that lay within. The site distressed him, he had become used to regimented life yet these past few days he had simply thrown his dirty worn clothes in with his clean ones, lacking any energy to drive as he wallowed in bed or lolled in the office chair, apathetic, lazy and pathetic in his mourning. Frustration filled him, as he stared at the tangle of clean and dirty clothes that filled his trunk. _At least this is something I can fix myself_. Separating clean and dirty was simple and easy work, and would distract him for a while. He pulled out a new jerkin, placed it on the bed and dug to find a fresh set of legging, he grabbed a balled up old shirt wrapped around something hard, pulled it out and threw it away to join the pile of dirty clothes. He paused.

Something had fallen out of the cloth to land on the floor with a hard, metallic clatter, startling him into pausing and turning. It was the dagger that had killed Beren. He had thrown it into his trunk and forgotten it for the past few days, but now it sat, glinting on the floor. He bent, morbid curiosity filling him as he picked the weapon up, turning it over in his numb hands. Its scabbard was black, some sort of leather with a large Daedric letter mounted upon it which, along with the chape and other fittings, were of finely worked silver that sent his skin itching. He drew the dagger and found that some kind soul had washed his brother's blood clear from the blade, and it glinted in the candlelight as he stood, hating and admiring the leaf shaped ebony blade. Razor sharp edges and a fine point suited it to both slash and stab, while the large black pommel stone could be used to bludgeon in the tight spaces of a melee. It was undoubtedly a priceless weapon and made with peerless workmanship for slaughter over display. _This is no wandering penniless madman's blade._ And where there had been confusion and doubt cold fury and resolution filled Beric. _And this was not accident, no chance murder._ He sheathed the blade with a snap.

Acting without orders Beric donned his old Dawnguard armour, slipped the dagger into a pouch on his waist and left his home with Durag and Serana, who had not questioned his orders or resolve. They marched down the centre of the streets, cut down the few rioters who dared challenge them with brutal spells or cold strokes of their swords and mounted the inner curtain wall. There he ordered the gates to the Winds district sealed, overriding the gate guards' complaints through sheer force of will and presence. Disdaining the chances of any messenger getting through the red and orange sea of fire below him, he signalled with a magical signal lantern to the legionnaire cohort quartered outside the walls of the town, relaying his identity, the situation and his orders. Knowing the dangers of a night attack, and the time it would take to ready the troops, he left the plains district to burn through the night, trusting the isolated garrisons of the guardroom and outer wall towers to fend for themselves, little pockets of safety to their tiny garrisons even as the town around them burned and laid his plains to strike at dawn.

And after a long night of chaos the collected response of the Empire was being brought to bear. With the coming of the dawn, the cohort marched out from their winter quarters, relieving the besieged garrison of the guard house and front gate as Beric led Whiterun's forces down from Dragonsreach. In the light of the dawn they advanced, fighting with pickaxe hafts as truncheons as they overturned barricade after barricade that had been erected to block their advance street-by-street. Beric had appointed himself overall commander with the jarl's approval and neither the cohort's Senior Centurion or Commander Caius refused him, co-ordinating the city's response as city guard and legionnaire rallied to his Brother's standard, standing under it bareheaded for ease of recognition and reassurance to the startled and confused troops and citizens of Whiterun.

And in that morning light Beric now found himself where he was most at ease, commanding troops and with an enemy to his front. To his left Quintus Strabo, the Cohort's standard bearer hawked and spat phlegm from scared lips onto the road as he leant on his standard alongside a bored looking Whiterun guard carrying Beren's old banner, the pair of them marking Beric's position for the endless runners that relayed messages from neighbouring forces. They stood at the entrance to the Meatmarket, by an abandoned fruit stall. Many of its baskets lay overturned, its produce smashed to pulp beneath the hobnailed tread of issue boots. It had once stood in front of a small inn, now burned to the ground, and simply a pile of charred beams and shattered roof shingles.

They had pushed the rioters back into the shambles, back from Plains-Gate road and Iron-monger street, whose shops now stood with shattered windows and splinters doors, if they stood at all amongst the ashes of their neighbours, as they stood on the edge of prime Stormcloak territory. For most of the morning they had advanced well, their pincer movement from up and down the hill catching a disorganised enemy between them. Guardsman and legionnaire alike had been shocked at the damage to the city, a city that had only just begun to recover from the Stormcloak siege and the civil war. Their forces had linked up quickly, but their advance had slowed as they had turned off the main roads and down side streets which quickly narrowed, and their formerly dispersed and disorganised enemy had concentrated itself. Now the rioters had cleared the houses of their former occupants and stood atop the roofs. There they threw shingles and stones down upon the advancing troops in the streets below, or else made use of slings to snipe centurions, musicians and standard bearers. Casualties grew, and pick-axe hafts were increasingly dropped in the melee for a dagger or sword, but such close-in fighting was murder on their unarmed bodies, and if a barrier could not be breached then Beric was usually able to outflank any barricade through a side street, or use a burst of magic to breach hole in the wall of a neighbouring house. Now, with Meatmarket square between them and the imperials, they commanded elevated positions and clear lines of fire to engage any advancing legionnaires.

Those legionnaires stood before him, leaning on their kite shield and chests heaving as they panted clouds of breath from sooty faces in their formed ranks, three centuries deployed in line abreast across the western edge of the Meatmarket, having been thrown back by unexpected fierce resistance, leaving a number of wounded scattered across the square before them. Beric peered over the four rank that stood before him, squinting peevishly into the burning light of the morning sun at the rough line of the barricade erected across the eastern edge of the square, occupied by a rough line of rioters now more like would-be warriors, hastily re-armed and armoured, while their families stood on the rooves behind them where they could rain down missiles upon his forces. He then looked down the sketch map crudely drawn on a loose leaf of paper, the streets he had drawn with a blunt pencil burned into his memory from childhood. His finger tracing the position of troops on neighbouring streets. Push them back into their own homes, put the riot down. Simple orders. But behind those shops that edge Meatmarket's square was the rat's nest that he used to call a home. Filled narrow twisting lanes and back-streets it would force his troops to wander in ones and two around blind alleys overhung by closely built houses. Overall was a perfect ambush spot, and that forced him to pause. Their previous assault across the square at the barricade had failed, and Beric was loath to throw good money after bad. He stared at the map in thought, mind whirling away with tactics and manoeuvres half formed as he dredged up the memories of his lectures in Castle Dour and the fighting at Windhelm. If it had been a simple siege against an enemy it would all be so simple, he though. Just give me a handful of ballistae, a century of archers or a pair of battlemages and that barricade would have been half an hour work to close with, breach and clear and disassemble the barricade. But here and now? He pondered his options. No good wishing came from wishing for what he wouldn't get.

He shifted his weight, and was surprised when his foot kicked something, and he looked down curious. An apple, one of the precious few which had escaped being crushed underfoot. He shrugged, bent and bit deeply, ripping a large bite out of it with his sharp teeth. Munching it tastelessly and without pleasure he turned at a shout from behind and was surprised to see Durag and Serana walking up the road towards him. Her eyes were red and puffy from the ash, and he was not surprised when she gently placed her hand on his arm. He felt the reassuring pressure of her grip through the hauberk and gambeson of his old Dawnguard armour as she spoke in a low calm voice.

"Aela has returned from Jorrvaskr, and I know you don't want to hear this, but she wants to talk about the funeral."

"Not right now." Beric snapped, turning back to his sketch map. Serana's hand fell from his arm and she stood awkwardly.

"All right then." She shrugged, standing awkwardly and turned to look back down the street she had come. He took another bite out of the apple, swallowing the woody, sweet core of the fruit and munching the seeds without a thought. Serana looked at him curiously, eyebrow raised and then turned away with a small shake of the head.

Durag cheerfully greeted Quintus Strabo, the Legionnaire Cohort's standard-bearer, a veteran of Windhelm and bent and after a minutes rummaging picked up trio of apples, handing one to his friend and another to the guardsman. Absentmindedly polishing one on his sleeve he took a bite listened as a newly arrived runner breathlessly rapped out his report.

"1st and 6th Centuries had pushed forward on our flanks on the left and right respectively, and 5th is now formed up in reserve having put out the fires on Iron-Monger Road."

"Good."

"What are you orders Sir?"

Beric thought. His previous attempt to storm the barricade by direct assault had failed. They had attacked hurriedly and without preparation an enemy that outnumbered them, had solid defensive positions, firm flanks and had grown tired of retreating, opting instead to stand their ground. 1st and 6th centuries were now in position, giving him new option. He could attempt to push up the side streets, hoping to win through on a narrow front where the quality of his troops would count for more. Or perhaps they could feint, draw the rioters away from the square and then punch through here with three centuries as their undisciplined forces ran to reinforce what they thought to be the main threat. The problem was that with the barrier cleared the rioters would be pushed back to their homes, and there they would be sure to fight to their deaths rather than stand down, and Beric was in no mood for a massacre on the lanes of his former neighbourhood. That was the rub of the problem, the cohort and town guard had encircled and pushed back the rioters to trap them in maze of the spittals behind Meatmarket square.

Shouts and jeers range out, and grateful for the distraction Beric looked up, across the square and the two hundred yards or so of open ground to where a disorganised band of blue-rag wearing rioters stood on the barricade of piled furniture, shattered stalls and upturned carts, shouting abuse into the sooty dawn air. A pair of legionnaires had fallen out of formation, running across the square to pull their wounded back one by one while leaving the dead behind, while their friends inspired by their action advanced in short rushed and covered their comrades from the hail of thrown rocks and stones with their bulky kite shields. The recovery of the imperial wounded was greeted with cheers and shouts of encouragement from the imperial ranks. And as Beric watched a few more, emboldened by their example joined them. When the Imperial troops ventured out again and carried back a number of abandoned wounded civilians, the blue-wearing rioters slowly stilled their tongues and stood in silence, watching as the square was slowly cleared of bodies. Grimley awaiting the assault that would follow as they watched the legionnaire across the square dropping their truncheons and pulling out their swords, slashing and swinging them in glittering arcs through the air.

A ripple of motion came through the century of legionaries before him as the wounded slowly trickled through the rear of the formation. One man was carried on the shoulder of another, hollow pain filled eyes staring at nothing through a mask of blood that caked his face. He was followed by another, his thigh smashed into pulp by slingshot, his arms wrapped around the shoulder of his comrades as they carried him out between themselves. Shouts came from behind Beric as Lady Isabella and a small team hurried forwards, a mix of priest and healers, together in with her small adventuring band, her Breton spellsword lover, her squire, a friend of Erik's and her Altmer grandmother the sorceress, all carrying satchels stuffed with poultices, bandages and potions. The wounded were quickly lined up side by side in the street as Isabella's party busied themselves around them. A few disappeared into the ranks carrying a stretcher to go forwards into the empty space of the square. A minute or so later the last of the wounded appeared, pale desperate hands clamped across his belly where blood dark as wine trickled slowly from his belly. He whimpered desperately in pain, and bucked, threatening to bounce clear off the stretcher.

Beric tucked the map away and took a step forward, into the path of the stretcher team, who slowed and stopped, beside him.

"It fucking hurts sir." He whispered, looking up at him with terrified eyes, his words rasping out between bloody teeth. Up close Beric could see a pair of broken air shafts sprouted from his chest and belly, while he seems to have torn out a third arrow, as a handful of his buts hung out of his belly, permeating the air near him with the smell of shit. Wounds he would be very lucky to survive, even with magical help.

"I know lad." He answered back, and he pressed a hand to his forehead, casting a simple spell which put him into a painless deep sleep. The legionnaires looking over their shoulders nervously at him and their wounded friend turned away at this display of magic, uneasy even in their gratitude. Beric looked away and turned as the bearers murmured their thanks and hurried him away.

Lady Isabella then appeared before him, wearing the simple robes of a priestess of Mara. The vivid orange cloth now stained with soot and blood; her silver-blonde hair messily tied back in a simple plait. He was relieved to see her, to know that the wounded were in her good care, and the morale that this would offer the troops who would know that they if they were injured, they would be well carried for. He turned away to give his orders to the runner, a planning forming in his mind, but then something tapped him, and he turned annoyed at this interruption. Lady Isabella reached out and grasped him by the shoulders, looking up into his eyes with concern, before attempting to pull him into a hug.

"Beric I'm so sorry I-."

"Not now." He broke away awkwardly, pushing her hands away. he did not want to be reminded of anything.

"Beric?" She said, startled and hurt. They had never been friends, but he had always been polite and respectful to the paladin who had been blessed by each of the hearth gods in their turn.

"Not now."

"Yes now."

"Isabella we've all lost friends today. And right now, I've got 6 centuries of legionnaires and 10 companies of guards deployed around the spittals…See to the wounded." He turned to leave and walked away.

"Such a busy man. What are you planning to do while I'm stitching up all the people you seem so determined to injure in the first place?" she snapped back, standing in the street were the groaning wounded lay with their minders, she stood ignoring them, daring him to turn back, and to his shame he turned over his shoulder and replied.

"Keep you in business. It's a simple plan: clear that lot over there from the barricade, break up this riot, then head home, then drink myself to death." He stated simply and without humour, Isabella looked at Durag and Serana, and both shook their heads.

"Have you heard any terms? Any conditions from them?"

"No."

"Have you made any attempt to contact them? To offer them terms of surrender. It may help."

"No."

"I have already spoken to the rioters today. They're just a frightened as your troops are. They don't know what's happened, and they're jumping at shadows. I could reassure them, and they would return to their homes."

He disliked her calling his troops afraid, and there was rumble of anger amongst the ranks as they could not help but overhear this argument. Many growled to disprove, but fear was there all the same. They all felt it, all denied it, but to acknowledge it was to give it strength, and it was fear of death, not death itself that broke armies.

"Then why don't you just go over there and tell them to fuck off?"

"Would you like me you use those words exactly?" Lady Isabella replied evenly in her calm low voice. After a beat Beric felt a blush burn his pale cheeks, and he turned away. Isabella sniffed at this and shook her head in disappointment.

"If your troops go forward once again, they will fight for their homes, their families and their lives. They won't run. They think that the imperials blame them for the Beren's death, that the rest of the town does. They think this is the end, and they're prepared for it. Let me slip through the lines, reassure them. If you vouch for them, then they will take you at your word. They know you are a good and honourable man."

She reached out once more, and held him by the shoulders, and he felt the burning heat of her palms through his armour, shocking him to his core at her fiery touch, but then the pain faded, and he felt the warm embrace of the divines once more on this chill and ash swept autumn morn. Instantaneously, the strain and stress which had filled his head and hardened his heart melted away like ice in the sun. This was far beyond simple restoration magic, he wondered as he felt the barest shred of the love of a goddess suffuse his being, even as he rebelled against it in his pain and hatred at himself and the world. Even though he felt the hesitation in the goddesses' touch and presence, he allowed it to calm him, soothe his worries and fears as he basked in the warm glow of her loving embrace. She removed her hands, and though the warmth fled, his head was clear and calm. With a nod she slipped past him and squeezed through the ranks of the legionnaires.

Some tried to stop her, but they seemed slow and sluggish in their movements compared to her, and the light of the sun caught her silver-blonde hair, giving it a glow all of its own. Others called out to her, thanking her for the care she had shown to their comrades, and their families and friends. She laughed, and they laughed with her as she walked out into the gap between the two armies. Straight-backed and as calm as if walking through a summer meadow she picked her way through the dead bodies and burned stalls towards the piled barricade, standing six feet high and growing by the hour as rioters milled around it like ants in their nest. Jeers and cat call rouse from their ranks at her approach, calling her mule and knife ears and blood-traitor. but others rebuked them, and an uneasy silence fell upon them as they slowed and stopped their work and stood, watching the approach of this lone woman.

He could see that Isabella had gained reached the barricade ahead of him, and was carefully climbing up the piled furniture. Carts, merchant's stalls and trestle tables and benches, together with what spare furniture that could be found had been thrown together into a barrier that now rouse to head height, and made for unsteady footing. She climbed ungainly, and a number of hands reached down to pull her up. She was quickly pulled into the massed ranks of the rioters and vanished down the back side of the barricade.

The slow minutes ticked by, and Beric ordered the cohort to stand at ease. Water bearers and a ration cart came forward, and still no reaction was seen from the barricade on the other side of the square. Finally, a ripple in the ranks of the rioters, a flash of orange amongst the blue sashes and brown homespun. She stood upon the barricade and waved at the imperial forces, but made no move to leave, but instead stood amongst those scared and proud peasants.

Suddenly insane inspiration filled Beric, and he turned to Quintus and Durag, and issued his orders.

"Durag. Send a runner to Senior Centurion Maxius of the 1st Century. He is to report to this location and take command of the Cohort in my absence. Should I not return or be captured and held hostage, he is to attack without regard to any hostages held by the rioters."

With that he pushed through the ranks, the legionnaires looked surprised at his passing, but quickly moved out of him way and stood to attention at his passing. Men and women, he recognised from Windhelm nodded, eyes downcast in respect and a low murmur of recognition followed him as he pushed out into the empty square, beyond the safety of the massed ranks and their dragon banners.

It was a long walk across the open ground, the cobbles of the square filthy with the discarded food mashed to paste underfoot. Lost items of clothing, drapery, bunting and assorted detritus, to say nothing of the bodies that now littered the square. Here a mother and her child lay dead, stab wounds to the neck and body much in evidence as they lay in a pool of drying blood, matching the red of their sashes and scarves. Further on, an arm lay, abandoned by its owner and hacked off at the elbow amidst a pile of smashed wood that used to be a merchant's stall.

The rioters pointed him out, and a ripple spread through them. Up close he could see the scattered red clad bodies of legionnaires that littered the ground before the barricade. There had been no chance to rescue the bodies this close to the wall and those who had not died of their wounds had had their throats slit. A small group of swordsmen appeared on top of the ungainly wall at his approach, mail hauberks and thick gambesons pulled over their normal clothes. The one in the centre stood with his face hidden under a horned helmet, his chin and mouth bristled by a thick beard and elaborate moustache. he raised his sword in his direction, staring down its blood-stained length at him.

"Stop! You stay right there!"

He halted and held his hands up slowly, bored and unconcerned at the arrows and javelins aimed at him. He wondered how much restrained the imperial troops would show if they tried to kill him here and now, loosing all their arrows and javelins in a single massed volley at him. Or, perhaps the rioters would attempt to grab him, hold him hostage to negotiate more favourable terms.

"Who are you." The unknown man called.

"I am Praefect Beric Stone-Strider. Are you the leader of these people?"

This immediately provoked a reaction amongst those standing on the wall. Scattered amongst the Stormcloaks he could see women and children, the young and the old, and a dozen or more faces half remembered from his childhood. Amongst them Isabella stood, unconcerned and calm. The man pulled his helmet off with a hand heavy with the black iron of warrior's rings.

"I might be. Why do you want to know?"

"To parley."

Shock split his face, and he looked up and down the line of the barricade, before turning back to Beric, grunting his response.

"Then put your case to them, not to me. And if they don't like it, then its them you'll answer too, I'll not take responsibility for your words or your safely."

Beric shrugged, unconcerned. He walked forwards again, closing the distance, before he was standing just a few feet from the bottom of the barricade. Here the blood was old and sticky on the cobbles, and the footing dangerous amidst the splintered wood and hacked off limbs

"That's close enough." The warrior grumbled, and now Beric was close enough to see the warrior rings on his fingers, one for each and every finger and thumb on both hands, the steel of each ring a kill in honourable single combat.

"I though you weren't concerned about my words or safety." Beric replied unconcerned, strolling forwards and beginning to pull himself up the barricade, hand over hand.

"Say your piece then." The man grumbled, hesitating for a moment, before sheathing his blade and offering him a bear like paw of a hand, helping to pull him up the barricade. There was a ripple of noise behind him in the imperial ranks, and a sharp clamour of orders before silence was restored behind him. The Man grinned through his beard and moustaches, and nodded towards the Imperial troops, impressed in spite of himself at Beric's bravery and his troops discipline.

"Loyal and disciplined troops like that are hard to find, no wonder we lost." He grumbled.

"The Stormcloaks were much the same." He replied. Looking around him now on his ungainly perch. The houses behind the barricade on either side of the road into the shambles had been stripped of their shingles for throwing, which had been piled for easy reach, and further down the street, over the massed ranks of the citizens of the city he could see another barrier was being built before the tight lane turned and hid the rest from view. He could spot children running through the crowd, sooty and ragged, and grandparents seated comfortably by the windows with a supply of rocks on the upper floors of barricaded houses where they could drop stones onto troops in the streets below. It reminded him all too much of Windhelm. He swallowed nervously and cleared his throat.

"Friends…Fellow Nords. You all know me, by name, by face. Hear my words as you would your own neighbour's." He began, uncertain of what to say or do, and damning this madcap foolish idea, wishing he had Beren's natural charisma and good humour.

"I would ask your patience, for I know you all to be true Nords. We have no liking for speeches or fancy talkers who think themselves too clever by half! It would seem you are in luck, for I am no great speaker, like the Bretons, or the Imperials or those damned High Elves, but a Nord, born and bred amongst you. You stand here as defenders of your home and the streets I walked as a boy. Amongst you all I can see men and woman I played with as a child. Had fate been different and the Divines wished it so, I would stand amongst you now, and it is to that bond that I call you to stay your swords and listen to my offer. I pray that you will hear my words, and I put my soul in their hands."

He looked around the crowd, there were a few murmurs here and there, but most stood still and quiet, interested and exhausted in equal measure. Isabella stood amongst them, standing out like a flame on the ice. Inspiration took hold of him, and he pointed to her, and the crowd rippled around her, staring at the woman who stood unmoved by his pointing.

"Lady Isabella, the thrice blessed by the hearth goddesses has come to you. She stands blessed by Dibella, By Kyne and by Mara, and swearing by those gods for you to come to no harm. Pledging that you will be unharmed should you put down your swords and return to your lives. This she has already told you. I swear to you now, before you all and by all the Divines. I wish that were enough for you to trust me. but I know that it is not enough. It is not the Oaths, but the man which you wish to see. The only man you would trust with such a noble offer. Beren. Your Dragonborn."

And now he slowly began to slip a small stream of magic into his words. It was a subtle magic, this sort of spell, and he allow it to permeate every syllable and sentence he spoke, and undertone of calming, soothing magic that wormed its way into the ear of every listener, like a poisonous snake slides between the bedsheets unnoticed by the sleeper.

"Yesterday a single word from Beren would stop the world. Now? Now there is not even a whisper to be heard. There are no more Dragonborns to come, and the Dragons are gone. It is to the words and promises of mortal men that we must now all place our trust. I would have it otherwise, I would have the gods send us a hero. But that was how we did things yesterday, and this is today, and Beren will not come, nor any other hero…."

"…And if he cannot, I shall have to play his part and take his place, though I know I cannot replace him. He was my brother. And a more honourable, and faithful man I have never met, and I will honour his memory today, and place my trust in you as he did. And I make this offer to you now, as I know he would do if I was dead instead of him. I know why you act like this; I do not blame you. It is out of fear for yourselves and love for him. And to that memory I call you, put down your swords and return to your lives, in honour of Beren, The last true Nord!"

At this there was an angry muttering in the crowd, as a few of the Stormcloak turned and spat at the very idea of respecting the Dragonborn. But Beric carried on, and his voice, magically pitched washed over them, making the nay-sayers seem harsh and vulgar in the speech even as his words were carried, pitched to fill the listener with

"Do not deny it! Who here is brave enough deny it? who here would look me in the eye and wish he had died in dragon's fire?! The man who hunted and killed every dragon, who save our world from Destruction! You all loved him once, for he was your hero, your protector, who led the Nords of Skyrim against the mad vampire Harkon, and the crazed Miraak, and defeated Aldiun in Sovngarde itself! What cause forces you not to fight your fellow Nord? What cause stops you to honour and mourn him? Is this how you would remember him? Would you undo all he did for you? Would you have this be his legacy?!"

He held his arms up wide, palms up begging as the magically infused words eased into their heads, shaming them. All the while the spell whispered to them, making it so easy for them to agree in their tired, emotion state. Here and there he could see people slumping against the walls of the houses, and a few of the grandparents in their upstairs rooms where already asleep, so powerful was the spelling of pacification he was weaving into his voice. Only Isabella seemed unmoved, her eyes narrowed slightly the only change in her expression. Beric was careful not to overdue the magic, unless his spellcasting become too obvious as to cause another riot, and he dropped his voice, pulling them in closer to listen to him.

"I do not know what happened yet, but I know I do not hold you responsible for what happened in Jorrvaskr last night. It was a night of fear and violence, born out of the love you feel for your own families. I call upon you now to look to your families, think of your sons and daughters, your parents and neighbours, for if you continue this battle, all of them will be lost. The choice is yours."

He was exhausted, and could not maintain the spell anymore. And for a moment his vision swam and he swayed on his feet. The crowd stood still and awkward. He turned and left them in silence, and made the long lonely walk back to imperial line. Behind him he heard a low muttering and the scrap of furniture.

They were all going home. In the days to come Beric's speech was often talked about by those who had listened. But they found that they could seldom repeat his words, or agree upon exactly what it was that he had said. And when they did, they wondered at the calming effect that it had had in at that time, for now little power remained in those words, though they lacked the wisdom or knowledge to understand. All that they remembered was that it was a delight to heard that calming and melodious voice speak, which made agreement seem so wise and reasonable, and how those who had disagreed had seemed so vulgar and unnatural in their speech.

* * *

Beric's footsteps fell light upon the floor even in his heavy armour, so it was only when the door to the office crashed inwards that the occupants became aware of his presence.

"What the FUCK do you mean he escaped?" Beric asked in a voice thin and chilling as lake ice, as Commander Caius stood before Aela, now installed comfortably behind Beren's desk, a folded piece of parchment in her hands. All three of them still in armour and covered in blood, mud and ash.

"…ah Beric, you-"

"Answer the fucking question." He cut off. Aela turned red with anger but said nothing, Caius gulped and began to explain.

"It would seem that at some point during the riot cicero…. that is, the prisoner picked the lock to his cell. He then jumped his jailor, stole his weapons and then killed two guards on their patrol routes before escaping in a looted guard uniform." Commander Caius delivered in a voice he struggled to keep clear of his nerves as he stared at a point directly over Beric's head, unable to make eye contact with the man.

"So just to be clear, the man the jarl promised me was the most heavily guarded prisoner in all of Whiterun hold, in all of Skyrim…. walked out the fucking front door. Is this what you're telling me? Am I getting all of this right, Commander?"

He nodded, miserable.

"Why wasn't he stopped at the door?" Beric asked in a chillingly calm voice, beginning to pace slowly back and forth before the fire place.

"He seems to have escaped while the guards were changing their watches, he just joined the off-coming guards."

"Oh, and how did he know when the watches changed?"

"…. Because there was a copy of the guard list hidden in his cell."

"And how did that get there?"

"We don't know."

An icily silence filled the air at this last pronouncement.

"So then, what's your plan to get him back?"

The commander looked calmer and slightly more confident now,

"We will send alerts to all the hold guard garrisons, and notices to all the Jarls. We will post reward notices and call adventurers to hunt him down. It shouldn't be too hard to track him down; he can hardly move fast without any toes, and the Companions have vowed to the last of them to hunt him down before the elect a new leader." At this he nodded gratefully at Aela, who ignored him and looked with extreme displeasure at how Beric was interrupting her private meeting. He ignored her in turn and snorted at the commander's ideas.

"The man has been tortured for two days now. And yet somehow, he stole a guard rota, hid a lock pick divines know where and the moment, the very moment your back was turned…he broke out of his cell, killed three people and disappeared without a trace, all without his toes. You'll have to me forgive me if I don't share your optimism or feel inclined to put my faith in your capabilities." Beric sat down in chair with a sigh, and pointed at the commander, exhausted with this argument for the moment.

"I want your full reports on my desk tomorrow."

"I'm afraid that's not possible, that is for the hold guard only-"

"You had no problem with me taking command earlier. Be aware I will be writing to the Queen, and General Tullius on this issue. My letters can be informed by your reports, or written without them, and right now, I rather imagine you need all the friends you can get. Now, shut the fuck up and stand in that corner. If you're luckily, maybe I forget about you for the next hour or so."

"Now." He said, turning onto his main target as he began to count points off on his fingers. She stopped playing with the piece of parchment and looked him full in the face with eyes that were red and puffy and yet filled with a cold hard anger and the promise of violence that flared at the sight of him.

"Aela…One, you will hand over that damned archer tonight. Two, The Companions will pay wergild to that man's family, and three, _you will apologise_ _for what they did to Beren's funeral._"

Aela gave a bitter laugh at this.

"Unless you're thinking of challenging me, I shall do none of those things."

"Oh, and why is that?"

Aela spoke, in a voice dripping with distain.

"You're not in charge of me. I'm not one of your soldiers to salute and march around at your whim. I am a Companion, a member of the Circle, I have no equal and no master. And this is my house, Beric. Perhaps you've forgotten that, and I don't want you, or Serana in it anymore, you filthy little snakes."

She held up the folded parchment, and by the seal and writing he recognised it as Elisif's marriage proposal. Beric's pale face went white at the sight of it.

"Perhaps it would be best if we spoke in privacy…in the Map room." He rambled, caught off guard and not liking this at all.

"Make it quick; I have other concerns tonight."

Beric stormed off, but Aela took her time to arrive, looking around the room and the large map that dominated it with a measure of interest, having rarely opted to join their councils in the past, before shrugging and throwing the marriage offer across the room at him. Beric snatched the letter out of the air in shock.

"Is this what you get up to when I'm not here? I know you never approved of my marriage to Beren, but I never though you would stoop to something as low as this."

"I assure you I had nothing to do with this!"

"Then you should be able to explain why she had the idea in the first place, or perhaps you not as well placed, not as well informed on how Elisif's empty little head works as you might think."

"What?! I don't know! By the Nine I don't know!"

"I don't believe it." she snapped, shaking her head, tears of anger and betrayal in her eyes. "Why didn't Beren tell me of this?" she asked, almost half to herself.

"I…I don't know" Beric was shocked at this

"Unless…unless he meant to accept it." she said lowly, wiping away the few tears which had fallen with a shaking hand.

"No. he wouldn't' do that." He shook his head, he could imagine the possibility, the scandal that would have ensued. Had Beren been free to marry, he would have urged him to accept, but Beren had been entrapped by the Huntress's fame, and his new found position. He had decided to marry Aela, and there was no changing his mind.

"So, you urged him to reject this weak queen who would steal my husband."

"…No. No, we did not." He sighed, exhausted and tired of arguing with this woman who had spent the last few years avoiding all mention of politics, only showing interest when the time came to kill some new monster or army of men.

She laughed bitterly at this "Cowards. Such loyalty you showed Beren."

"Loyalty? What do you know of Loyalty? What has it ever cost you? What have you ever given up for Beren compared to me, compared to what I sacrificed for him, for Skyrim and his victory? I lived every day since our mother died just doing my best to keep him alive until he closed his eyes. I told him to wait, and that was the best option. We didn't know if the letter was real or not, it seemed impossible, it made no sense! Why send a letter like that? It could have been her courtiers who wrote it, to stir up trouble, or a Stormcloak agent, or Thalmor spy."

"Cowards!" she barked, and she clawed the air in front of her as though waving away his words likes flies.

"No." he denied it automatically, but he did not feel the truth of it in his heart. It may have been the sensible option, but Beren had never been one to sit and wait, and since when had he cared for convention?

"lies… you always told him he should have married better, married for wealth, for power. Here was your chance, why wouldn't you take it?" Aela hissed, and despite himself he could see the truth his thought in her words. Beren had carried himself like half a god and had increasingly left petty rules to bind lesser men, and he could see similar thinking flicker behind Aela's eyes, fearing that perhaps, with time he would have left her. They both knew too well that urge to power itched at Beren's mind like a rash, how it had called him out to fight Ulfric. Beric now regretted how he had advised Beren to treat the civil war as a personal feud with Ulfric rather than a war against the Stormcloaks, as Beren had increasingly treated the war as a squabble between champions as he sulked in his tent outside the walls of Windhelm, repelled by its ancient walls and arcane charms.

"Lies. Plain and simple. You plotted this with Elisif, in those letters and reports you so love to write! She gets an army and a warrior, and he gets a wife of rank, and a country to lead. Dare you deny it? Why would she send such a letter, unless there was a spy here to make sure it would be well received? It's what you always wanted for him isn't it? I remember how you counselled him to toss me aside that winter when you came crawling out of the north, more monster than a man, and with another monster at your side. Beren should have killed you and Serana then and there, and he would have been within his rights to do it!"

She was screaming at him now, tears streaming down her face. Beric felt his anger fill him, his blood lust rising and his sharp teeth biting as he ground his teeth. He answered in a low voice, chillingly cold.

"And I remember well the monster you turned my little brother into the moment my back was turned. You and that cosy little club you had in the circle. I got Beren to end that, do you remember that Aela? Remember how all your little friend turned their back on your little 'gift.' Do you? Do-"

she slapped him, and he rocked on his heels, shocked. _I can't believe she hit me._ He raised his own hand, palm up to and shaking with fury. With a slap to temple he could crush her head, a punch to the chest her lungs and heart. He forced his hand down, shaking with embarrassment at the effort it took.

"I will not hit you, at least while you carry Beren's Child. Like it or not, it is me you have to thank for keeping Beren at your side. And I am not leaving." He turned away.

"Ha. Yes, you are." She laughed, but there was no humour in it, only victory as she closed in for the kill.

"Calm yourself Aela, think of the child." He snapped without thinking, without looking over his shoulder.

"Do you want me to smack you again?"

"How brave of you to punch a man who will not fight back."

"Ha, I don't need hands of bows or swords to drive you out. I did learn one thing from my dear Beren, that words are power. And I know exactly what words to use." She purred, and Beren turned, ashen-faced as she moved into the kill. "let me put it in words you can understand." And with this mocking she held her hand up and began ticking points off on her fingers.

"How will the people see it? The stern and scheming older brother, overshadowed and overlooked, or the power-hungry uncle, squabbling with a mother and her duty. What would it take for me to say? For me to ask? Why does he not join the others in the morning sun? Why does always wear that hat outside? Why does he never seem to eat and only drink? Why do his eyes seem to cut you like a knife taken to flesh, carving red and deep to the marrow?"

They had only ever rarely spoken of the scale of the cost to his humanity Beric had incurred to visit the soul cairn, and only then in round about ways and whispers.

"Now, you will go, you and Serana. I give you this evening, and tonight, and tomorrow morning you will go, to Winterhold, or Solstheim or to the very ends of Tamriel. And if you are still here tomorrow, or if ever see you again, then I will take that elvish bow, and kill you all. And who could blame a mother for it, after all, I was thinking of my child."

She turned and opened the door, before pausing on the doorstep to turn and look down the corridor towards the Library.

"Serana, come to the map room. It's time for you and Beric to go Winterhold." She gave a mocking smile and left satisfied footsteps disappearing down the corridor towards the main hall.

After a moment Serana appeared, a puzzled look on her face as she stood in the door.

"Um… do you mind telling me what all of that was about?"

* * *

Serana had the good grace to listen in silence as he relayed the news, listening impassively as she heard the argument, the threat and the outcome. How she blamed them all for trying to sabotage her marriage to Beren, and her threats, to reveal them, and to kill them, and he saw how fear, anger, guilt and excitement warred within her as he told her of their destination, the college of Winterhold. For dignities sake they agreed to let it be known that they were leaving to carry and protect Beren's bequest of three priceless Elder Scrolls to the College before winter snows closed the passes. While people would talk that it was not decent to travel so soon after a funeral, the time of year and the nature of the present would make sense, and the Nords were nothing if not a pragmatic people when it came to the dangers of skyrim's winters and honouring the wishes of the dead.

The information had come spilling out of him like a dropped waterskin, until silence once again filled the room as Serana sat, her brow furrowed in deep though. But it was not the sense of defeat or loss of his home that itched his mind like a flea bite, but an unsettled feeling that there was some other factor at play, and the fear that exhaustion was turning his tired mind to paranoia. He could tell Serana, she would hear him out, and if he was raving then she would be polite and kind enough to tell him. He looked around the walls of the map room. Safe and secure. If there was a place to discuss his thoughts, his suspicious, then in it was in this room. Resolved, his voice broke the stillness of the room, startling Serana.

"I'm just a bit confused at the moment, why did he give the Elder Scrolls to the College for free when he refused all money that they offered to buy them?"

"Did he never tell you that he had changed his mind, or added it to his will?"

He shook his head in answer. Serana cocked her head to the side and thought for a moment.

"…. I suppose he felt it was useful to keep hold of the dragonborn prophecies while he was alive. After he was dead, he must have felt that they would be of more use to the empire being studied then staying locked away in this place." Serana sniffed, clearly still a little bit annoyed at how 'her' Elder Scroll was included in the bequests so casually. He shrugged and continued, thinking aloud in a constant stream of thought as the utter exhaustion he felt pushed him to unburned himself to Serana, feeling the need to fill the silence as he worked up the courage to discuss his suspicious.

"…At least people's curiosity will be reduced as to why we're traveling…. Or is might be increased, not often people travel with three scrolls on their knapsack. Either way, it gets us away from here, from her." He babbled thoughtlessly, distracted as things turned over in his mind.

"uhh…sure Beric." She looked at him with concerned eyes, uneasy at his babblings.

"Serana…there's something else I wanted to talk to you about."

He took a deep breath, suddenly nervous and uncertain of how to begin.

"I need to talk to you about Beren's death."

She nodded, and reached out and gently pulled him into a hug, resting her head on his shoulder and gripped in her gentle grasp as she pressed her body against his. She disliked public displays of affection by others, and hated being touched, but in the privacy of the map room she did not fear to hold him close, or allow such tenderness to linger. The smell of her perfume filled his nose as she rested her head on hear shoulder, and after a moment as she turned her head and whispered quietly into his ear, her hand gently cradling the back of his head, her fingers ruffling his hair as she spoke.

"I've been so worried about you. We've not talked about it at all. I've never seen you like this Beric, and it's scaring me. You're so restless and tense, I can feel it right now in your body. I know we're leaving home, but I'm here for you, and I'm not going anywhere. Ever. And if you ever want to talk about him, just tell me, and we'll find a quiet place. I know how much he meant to you, and I know how much you loved him. He was proud of you Beric, he loved you. Never forget that."

They held each other for a moment longer, and then with a sign and a sniff they broke apart. Beric rubbed his eyes and coughed to clear his throat.

"Thank you, Serana. I…I don't know who else I would go to. Everyone else knows him as the Dragonborn. I think we're the only people who really knew him as a man. But there's something else about his death I wanted to talk about. Something that was troubling me."

She nodded, saying nothing and he continued.

"But does…does any of this make sense to you? I mean, think about it, a mad-man just happens to infiltrate one of the most secure location on Tamriel and kill the dragonborn and his squire. Then when he's taken for questioning, he reveals nothing of value? And then he breaks out and disappears to the nine knows where? and look at this dagger!"

He pulled the knife out from his pouch and handed it over to her. She turned the dagger over and over in her hands, looking at it with narrowed eyes where distasted warred with curiosity.

"There's some sort of enchantment on it that I've never seen before, and a powerful one at that. Oh and that is the Daedric letter 'Oht…'O' in Tamrielic.' she added at his confused look "….and it reeks of Daedric power…Daedric prince power, one of them definitely had a hand in making this weapon, I'm sure of it." she handled it carefully, fearful avoiding the silver. The mention of the Daedra intrigued him, and he noted that she did not shiver at its touch like she did when they had handled artefacts which carried the taint of Molag Bal. She handed back the knife and he replaced it in his pouch.

"Urag should be able to help. The library at Winterhold will have all sorts of books on Daedric princes and their weapons."

"What are you going to do Beric?" she asked quietly, her golden eyes carefully searching his.

"I don't have a plan yet. I just…I just want some answers. That would be enough. For now." He said grimly.

"For now?" he caught the worried tone in her voice and looked up, her brow knitted in concern. "Be careful Beric."

"Weapons like these don't end up in the hands of people by accident, mad men least of all. If someone put it in Cicero's hands, it's because they wanted Beren dead. I'm going to find them. I'm going to learn why, then I'm going to kill them, and send their souls screaming into Oblivion."

She sighed, and he knew that it was not the answer she had wanted. But it was the truth, and he couldn't bring himself to lie to her. For the first time he felt cold certainty.

They emerged from the map room to find that it was late, that dusk had pasted, night fallen and Aela had gone to bed. Never the less she was not one to make idle threats and they roused their servants, stable-boys and porters, knowing there would be little-to-no sleep for any of them tonight. He had a spare trunk brought up, and packed his armour away quickly, both the old Dawnguard set and his new ebony spell plate. The dagger, his mace and his bastard sword were packed, carefully wrapped in oiled rags, and his servants were about to carry it down stairs when he stopped them. On a whim, he raced downstairs to the library, where Auriel's bow hung on the mantlepiece. While Aela had used it in the battle with Harkon, it had been he and Serana who had bled to recover that weapon, and to leave such a bow in the hands of a woman who carried the title of the Huntress seemed the height of lunacy. He threw it into the trunk, along with a sheaf of sunhallowed arrows. Buckling under the weight of the trunk, the strong pair of stable hands carried it out of the room to be loaded onto the cart.

He then filled his own truck, with clothes and assorted books, grabbing his old college robes from the bottom of his wardrobe, before throwing a few choice documents into a small satchel for safekeeping, taking Elisif's marriage letter which he saw no reason to leave in Aela's hands. Next, Beren's will he took as proof of the bequest, and to satisfy his own suspicions. Finally, he packed his dwemer timepiece and a few purses of gold septims, hoping that Durag would send the rest of his money on, as well as Beren's bequests. Suddenly packed, he looked around his small chamber. It had always been a rather impersonal room, and his meagre belongings had always given it a rather transitory feel, like a rented tavern room. He looked around, shrugged and left, helping the porter lug his trunk down the stairs to join the other trunks. They would wait a few hours, while their servants slept a few hours until they roused them early in the morning. Serana joined him, having rushed back and forth from office to library to trunk, bearing books, pouches of alchemical ingredients and a small lock box filled with documents which were too sensitive to be left behind.

With much grumbling and fumbling of torches and lanterns, First his trunks and then Serana's were loaded, and despite the time and the early hour she was hoping from foot to foot with barely concealed excitement that they were finally off to the college, a dream she had been chasing for more than a year. After they carefully supervised the retrieval of the elder scrolls from the locked safe that stood in the basement storeroom and their packing into a trunk which was chained and padlocked. Standing in the forecourt of the estate while he waited for the horses to be saddled and the last of their supplies to be loaded, he could see that the dark skies of the east were brightening pink. Durag was there to see them off, and he hugged them goodbye and wished them well. promising that he would visit the college in the spring.

They left, three carts loaded with their trunks and spare supplies, ten guards and the two of them on horses picking their way through rubble and ash filled streets, their every move watched by suspicious legionaries and town guard detachments stationed at every intersection, while heavily armed patrols marched their routes down every street. Given the early hour their party attracted considerable attention from the curious onlookers, though none dared to question their journey as Beric rode at the head of the party, proudly wearing his old legion cloak. Once they had left the city, they made good time, though the sun's light was muted behind heavy low clouds, and as the sun rose those heavy clouds began to sleet upon the party, first lightly and then in increasing curtains. Despite the misery it brought their little party, he was glad to see it. At least a proper soaking would ensure that there would be no more fires in the city for a while, and Beric was lost in thought as they road past the bulk of the city, past farms and orchards which still bore the scars of the Stormcloak attack on the city.

After an hour or so they stopped for a break, and he and Serana watched as the small party broke their fast on water, salted pork and bread, huddled under the carts canvas covers at the side of the road. Sleet fell from the dawn-dark skies onto Beric's lank, sweaty hair as he trotted his horse onto a small rise and looked back over at the city for a long moment, alone and lost in thought. Whiterun lay crouched upon its hill under a sky of smoke and cloud. Here and there he could make out the lights and fires of the peoples of his former home town, and his mouth filled with the bitter taste of defeat and failure.

Serana trotted her horse up to him, her hood pulled up against the rain, saying nothing but her gentle eyes and face full of concern for him.

"Beric…what are you thinking?"

"That this is the second time I have run for my life from my home."

"You know what I mean."

He shrugged, and looked away from the city that had been his home, unwilling to discuss his thoughts and spoil Serana's dreams. He turned his back upon the city and kicked his horse forward to re-joined the party as they finished breakfast. They set off once more, their horses' hooves and wheeled carts splashing upon the cobbled road where puddles grew as more sleet felt from the skies. It fell upon the North road that went from Whiterun, through Heljarchen towards the crossroads town of Nightgate, and would eventually take them towards Winterhold, and exile.

* * *

**Author's Note**

Happy new year everyone! This project of mine started one year ago as a new year's resolution to kick the can of world building disease, with me resolving to try to post one chapter a month as an exercise in writing, characterisation and plot building. Unfortunately, that proved over-optimistic. However, I have managed to post fairly reliably, and in the future, I will look to post more regularly. My plan (and new resolution) is to post chapters of 8,000-10,000 words, which is more achievable and easier to edit then the lengthier 18,000-20,000 word monsters that I've been writing the past few months. This should also hopefully make it easier to arrange my writing around work, which will promise to be very busy for the next few months.

As it stands, this story is now as big as the first harry potter book, and will probably take another 2-3 years to finish at current pace. I would like to thank everyone who has read so far, and whose honest and specific criticism has been always there to guide and develop this story. Thanks to all of you, and good luck with all your own endeavours in this new year.

Cheers!


	8. Chapter 8: An Eye for an Eye

**Chapter Eight: An Eye for an Eye**

**Serana II**

It had been a brutal road. Her thighs ached from riding, and she could feel her clothes sticking and freezing to her ice-cold skin, a mildly discomfort that nagged at her and had left many of their horses and guard's crippled, half frozen in the blizzard. Snow swirled across the mountain road to Winterhold, driving like icy spears into the mortal eyes. Serana looked untroubled through that cold darting wind, searching the whirling horizon as night began to fall. The snow remained frustratingly thick and fast-flying, blinding her sight to the college which she knew must not be far.

She and Beric had been in this hold before, back in the late winter and early spring of 202 but not by this road. Serana had taken Beric into the wilderness, away from civilisation, avoiding the towns and byways populated by decent people and the common folk. The journey by small boat had been an invigorating adventure for them both and a new challenge for her as Beric adjusted slowly to vampirism, a dear-bought but necessary sacrifice on the road to victory over her terrible Father. They had sailed by night, sleeping by day as they sailed along the coasts, preying on pirate camps and cruising amongst the glaciers and ice floes to discover Septimus Signus's outpost and leaving quickly before Beric's self-control snaped. They had watched with wonder as icebergs floated past, admired pods of whales and dolphins leaping from the frigid waters and watched horkers nesting on the beach. The natural beauty of the landscape matched by danger and the promise of fresh blood, fighting back to back in every encounter against pirates, bears sabrecats, then laughing away scares and close calls as they shared a tent against day's harsh light. Day-by-day and night-by-night the walls that had separated them as vampire and Dawnguard had fallen, and they had slowly learned all of each other's secrets and stories.

This journey had lacked the joy, the urgency and freedom of that one; slowed by weather, surrounded by mortals, and tied to the roads. News of Beren's murder and the riot had spread like wildfire, and everywhere they met they saw anxious foot patrols and the fear of wanderers. Already the murderous clown had passed from reality into fantasy, as inevitably the news leaked out. Mothers used the threat of him to bring their children inside as they passed as strangers through their towns, warning their kids of the daemon clown hiding in sewers to snatch them away before disappearing. They were turned away from towns and inns as much as they were given entry, for even though they did not look like murders, they did not much look lime merchants either, and Beric was loath to use his name for fear of the questions and sympathy it would provoke.

They were fortunate that their road was not without interesting sights to see as they plodded along miserably. They passed along much of the route Tullius's armies had taken to Windhelm, over the battlefield of Blizzard's Rest, that blood-soaked ground now freshly famous as the site of the defeat of Ulfric's army, where she and Beric had fought before leaving with the Army of High Rock for Riften. They had followed the path of Ulfric's retreat down to the town of Nightgate where they rested for only a day before pressing on, as the season and the weather was against them. Passing through the Karstav pass they left behind the pleasant valleys and plains of Skyrim's central plateau and entered the frozen tundra and glaciers of Winterhold. Since then Serana had seen any number of wonderous sites.

They watched awed at shambling Giants, droving their vast cattle herds down from the mountains for winter, free from the human hunters who had driven them from Whiterun's plains and the coasts of Haafingar, they headed to the small Nord villages where they would barter their goods in their groaning tongue. They cheered the Mammoth-riding Nords nomads in their creaking howdahs of bone, wood, and furs that had lumbered past them in an earth-shaking trumpeting gallop as they hunted Snow Bears and sabrecats, a sight from her own human childhood. One of the carters had a fine singing voice, and he had recited _the Ode of the Tundra Striders_ in tribute. As night had fallen one day, she had watched the sun through squinting, burning eyes slip behind the colossal statue of Azura that stood atop the icy mountain peaks. Even Beric had stood and looked in silent fascination as he pretended to ignore her. It had amused her to watch his face and see in his eyes how awe at the soaring majesty of that statue had warring with that little part of himself that told him good little Nord boys shouldn't look well on the works of the Dark Elves or their evil Daedric gods.

The snow swirled, thickened and then, cleared with a sudden buffeting gust of wind. _There!_ She squinted, _Winterhold._ _just a mile or two away_. The city did not interest her, a squat wall of dark stone buttressed by square towers behind which sat an untidy mess of snowy thatched roofs- that she had seen any number of times in Skyrim, both then and now. It was the College that dominated it, perched upon a rocky pinnacle soaring apart the city and far above the pounding sea below. Its high keep disappearing into the low clouds, towering above every other building she had even seen. Even Solitude's famous Windmill and the towers of Castle Volkihar were barely a quarter of its height. The sight of that famous college filled her with energy and relief even as it again disappeared once more into the swirling storm, confirmation that their three week long journey was almost over.

Excitement filled her, swiftly met with worry and concern, pushing her discomfort and exhaustion to the back of her mind. The college intrigued her, an alien place filled with 'pupils' and 'teachers' and 'schools' of magic. It had been a fascinating, brave and foolhardy experiment in her time when magical knowledge was carefully hoarded by secret societies like the Psijics or Aedric or Daedric mystery cults. The chosen lived in isolation, learning magical liturgy in strict hierarchies of masters and apprentices. The magics they wielded demonstration their unique connection with the Gods, proof of their power and favour and a celebration of their divine patron's power. Her mother had been cult matriarch, and her privileged position as a Daughter of Coldharbour showed the great and terrible gifts the favours powerful gods brought.

Instead this college broke every rule of witchcraft she had been taught, and as much as she scorned such foolishness, its endurance intrigued her. That a mage would abandon a close connection with the gods and the master-apprentice relationship to instruct the random masses, to willingly, openly share their knowledge shocked her to the blood, as did the fact that the college had flourished over the millennia since its founding. It was yet another facet of this modern world she would need to study and understand, yet another perspective that had been denied at Castle Volkihar. There was much that she could learn here, and She might even be generous enough to share a of her own secrets.

A horse whinnied behind her bringing her back to the present, and she turned, tired, knowing and dreading what that noise would inevitably bring.

"Serana!"

Starting as the yell, she turned to find an exasperated Beric motioning her, standing beside the lead wagon. Since leaving the inn at dawn the carts had reliably gotten stuck in snow, ice and potholes every half mile or so. Their guards and Beric were struggling through the snow drifts that had now piled up upon the road such that they stood almost knee deep in snow. wrapped thickly in scarves, glove and cloaks against the storm, covered in frost and ice they resembled shambling ice atronachs more than men.

"Lend a hand with this!"

She signed and dismounted, handing her reins one of the guards. She wished they had brought more of them for this hard, dirty work. Beric seemed to relish the release manual labour brought and the simple humour of the men and women. She found them crass, irritating and irreverent. Sighing she joined them, as Beric and others pawed and kicked away the ice and snow that was compacting around the rear wheel.

"Not far now…not far now." She yelled over the wind.

Beric grunted, shoulder now braced against the rear of the cart.

"One-two-three-heave!" he yelled into the blizzard as the men and woman gritted their teeth and stamped their heels deep into the snow, pushing their exhausted muscles to the limit. The wheels rocking as the exhausted guards strained, the carter cracked his whip and the horses in their braces strained. It rocked forwards, caught the lip and then rolled back, returning to the pothole.

"And again!" Beric called, and this time it rocked a little further.

"Good! and Again!" he yelled, getting the rhythm. Tireless, ruthless, calling the others into line. A whip crackled over the horses back, and they screamed in sympathy as the men groaned.

"Come on! And again!" with that final push it climbed the snowy lip, one of the guards tripped and fell in surprise head first into the snow, while the others staged on, pushing wheels and the body of the cart to keep the momentum going.

"Good, good, keep it going! Keep it going!"

she re-mounted and kicked her horse forward after the carts, as Beric rode off without a word of thanks. Overall, the journey had not been good for him. She looked at the college once more, isolated atop a mountain of rock. Its towers, curtain wall and keep seemed to shimmer over the city like the air above a forge, it before they disappeared behind the mass of the city's walls of squat dark grey stone. When this journey had started, she had been glad to leave Whiterun. While Lydia, Durag and Aela had been pleasant companions during their time together for the most part for the most part, Aela had always known of her vampirism and had treated her and Beric with muted hostility. They had all at some point decided that affection she and Beric had for each other was an open secret, and had often gently mocked her and him for it. She had disliked their intrusive prying and had been embarrassed by their interest. Above all else hating their unnecessary venture into her private life and thoughts, and often she had snapped back at them, before regretting her anger even as she wished they had let it be. Sometimes, late in the evening after a bottle of wine or two they had even gone so far as to ask her about marriage, Marriage! She scorned the notion. Courtship in Skyrim was quick, marriage a sham ritual held before powerless god long abandoned, a simple as a prelude to the bedding ceremony, the very thought of being touched in that way sending an icy shiver down her spine. She had no respect for any of those customs. What she wanted was Beric's companionship, without conditions or rituals. The College could be a starting place for that, where they could run away and be forgotten.

Now they were here, and it all was nothing near wanted or dreamed it. Their goodbyes had ben hurried- Durag had been sad to see them go, and had given her a letter to carry to his sister Ghagra, an adept at the college, while Lydia had so busy managing the Dragonborn's estate that with their sudden departure that they had barely said a surprised goodbye. Aela had not seen her go, and her threat to expose them rankled her and coaxed her fears that Beric would do something rash. And it was Beric most of all who worried her. Beric had not been himself since his brother's death. Beric feigning excessive good cheer and throwing himself into every chore, but the moment these were finished he would fall into a surly isolation, stewing in quiet misery, often he would stay awake most of the night, staring at nothing, writing on scraps of paper half-formed plans, and ignoring her. Then he would snap. The suddenly explosion of violent anger, and the embarrassed quiet that followed. The anger and the rage were too be expected, but she was uncertain if the lethargy or the anxious, almost frantic constant need for distraction worried her more. Beneath it lurked an anger and bloodlust for a revenge she only half believed in that chilled even her vampiric blood whenever it cast a shadow upon his character. Mania was a dangerous emotion in a vampire lord.

She and Beric had often spoken on and off during their adventures about what they were going to do 'when all this is over' making a dozen different promises to themselves at dozen different times and place, making plans that they barely believed they would live to honour. She had hoped that they would have shared more on the long road here plans on the long road here, to invite him to dream of a better future. She had talked to Beric on the first few days of their journey, when they had seen from afar a bandit camp nestled in a ruined tower house. Beric had ignored her. She told him they could make a home there after all this was over, and Beric had grunted a reply. She invited him to share her vision- there would be a bathroom, a fine library and comfortable bedrooms. Thralls would guard their sleep by day and a stable of cattle taken from the surviving bandits to slake their thirst. Beric jumped and screamed at her. He refused to even consider it, asking how she could imagine enslaving her fellow man so casually, how she could be happy just sitting and watching the world pass knowing that clown was still out there. Then he walked out into the night, returning only at dawn.

Now he avoided her. In camp by night he was distant and brooding, hunched over that Daedric blade the killer had used to murder his brother, grumbling of plots and assassins when he was not sleeping fitfully. By contrast each day had promised a fresh struggle, a new adventure and the threat of ambush or raid by bandits, and that had shaken dark thoughts from his mind, focusing him on survival even as he ignored her. With a sword on his hip and troop of warriors at his call he feigned happiness. he hid his feeling behind a mask of cold command and pretended to grow back into the man he once had been. Once facet remained unchanged, for he was curiously protective of them, and had taken her to task when she had fed from one, the second argument in as many weeks. The fact that she had fed on every single one of them many times before this journey went unmentioned by her, and she had though him joking until he has seen the anger and protectiveness that flared deep within him. He made sure they were fed well of fresh bread, good ale and hot stew, and bedded down in a warm tavern beds of clean straw whenever a village or town had space for them all. Such profligacy towards their mortal servants seemed an extravagance to her. But, she supposed, the fact that they could not just simply enthral them meant that they depended partially upon their willingness to serve, much as she regretted such indulgences.

For their part they seemed to worship him, brother to the Last Dragonborn, a stern and aloof leader who lent his hand and back to every task, and possessed a strength and bravery in battle near unmatched. Every night after their fight he would join them after their supper by their fire, hearing their stories and enjoying a pint or three with them before taking a tavern whore into his bed. The guards found this endlessly amusing in their vulgar, tasteless way. The fact that he was bleeding the whores, not bedding them, or that his endurance was vampire-gifted remained secret, his endurance a convenient lie. For her part, she cared little of what they thought or him or her for that matter. She was not glad to see him socialising with them, for when he was not stewing in indolent misery and fingering that leaf-bladed Daedric dagger that now hung on his belt he was speaking to people who encouraged, celebrated the crass and the cruel- often pledging bloody murder on his behalf as revenge for his brother, and he took them into his confidence as he pondered aloud the perpetrators of the crime. Thalmor, Stormcloak or Bandit- fantasies and conspiracy theories whirled like sparks above the fire, carried into the night. She kept her distance, and avoided future arguments and feeding on his men. If she had not been so worried, she might have even found it amusing her to watch how his curious sense of honour made him pay for a whore to bleed. Sometimes she forgot that he was still a fledgling and came with all those moral knots that they so loved to tie themselves in. She had never sired before, and wondered if such behaviour was normal, and how long it lasted. Truly, it took a hundred years to make a vampire.

She dismissed her thoughts with a shrug as they rode past three corpses hanging from a primitive gibbet and neared the gatehouse, its gate and portcullis protected by a pair of square towers. The ice and snow had turned to slush underfoot as a steady trickle of traffic resumed through the city gates. The frozen guards looked at them with bored curiosity through narrow slits between cloak and scarf as they clutched shield and spear in mittened hands. She was at first puzzled that their arrival did not merit more of a reaction, then she remembered that this was Winterhold not Whiterun and they were unknown in this city- by face at least. Swaddled in mud-splattered clothes and ice rimed cloaks they must look like any other party coming up the Windhelm road, and few mortal guards had the energy or attentiveness to do their jobs properly in such weather. The gibbet was all the threat that was needed, where three frozen dark elf corpses hung like frozen washing. 'Murderer' was scrawled upon the crude placards that flapped on their chests as they gazed down upon them. She felt magic swirl within her, and the corpses seemed to twitch at her presence, the salute of the dead to their princess. The guards glanced over their carts with bored curiosity, a few simple questions answered with curt responses and they were waved through. Their hooves clattered and echoed as they road through the cavernous arch of the gatehouse, and rode out along the main road.

The blizzard had eased off with the fall of night, and Serana pushed her hood back as the bitter sun quickly gave way to dark's comforting embrace, ignoring the few scatted snowflakes that fell upon her raven hair. She was curious to see a Stormcloak city untouched by war as she mentally ticked the others off: Riften, half destroyed by dragon attack, had fallen by subterfuge. Windhelm flooded, burned and half-razed. Dawnstar surrendered under threat of dragon fire after a protracted siege. By contrast, Winterhold had endured little. After the college had declared itself neutral it had been judged 'a sheltered irrelevance without industry or worth to the war effort' in General Tullius's own words. After a legion had occupied Fort Karstav and blocked the mountain pass, Tullius had been content to ignore the city. After the siege of Windhelm, Beric and the rest of their party had likewise simply sailed past en route to Dawnstar.

So far, so disappointed. It had none of the Imperial magnificence of Solitude, or the nordic wealth of Whiterun. There were no little blue streamers tied to door frames, or blue cloaks proudly worn by provocative youths. There was little to see at all. There were few people about, and the houses that pressed close together either side of the road were both poorer and more densely packed than she had seen in Whiterun's slums. Many looked unoccupied, and there were large stretches where the ruins of buildings still stood abandoned, their crumbling walls half hidden under snow. She had become used to the modern sewers and cobbled streets of more prosperous cities, here the streets were made of frozen mud. This city smelt of nightsoil, woodsmoke, sweat and salted fish, and it reminded her of the old peasant villages that had marked the shores of Haafingar while her family had ruled. Her memories of that time brought up another scent- the whiff of easy blood that set her thirst on edge. Back then one of the few escapes from the tedium of court and castle life had been an exhalating midnight ride with just a pair of guards along the shores and cliffs of their island, arriving at some small village to invoke her rights to blood-tribute from the headsman then racing dawn's rays home to return to the arguments of father and mother. Blood did always taste better when it had matured in the sun and had been worked in fields rather than taken from sickly undercroft bred cattle. She looked at Beric's back, hooded and cloaked, and wished he could share her excitement. Perhaps one day he will understand, and join her in raiding a bandit camp and the thrill of racing against the dawn.

Another scent, another sense broke through her remembrance- magic, hands tingling at its swirling potency, twitched her towards it like iron to a lodestone. They rode closer to its source, and as they moved deeper into the city more people began to appear. This deep into the city the crooked buildings towered above them, lines of frozen washing stretching between them over their heads. They passed a patrol of watchful guardsmen rushing out of their watchhouse smelling of smoked fish and sweat and disappear up an alley, while fishwives and merchant appeared from their homes or side-streets pulling wagons or pushing carts piled with goods, carts picked their way through the streets driven by sullen men and woman in thin cloaks who barely spared them a glance. All hurried to make their deliveries now that the weather had turned for the better.

They entered the main square; the snow had scarily settled before being tramped into slush as business resumed, and she eagerly looked around taking in the sights. It had little of Whiterun's charm or energy, but when she saw that many of the surrounding shops specialising magical and alchemical supplies, her excitement peaked and she promised herself to get Beric to show her around, hopefully he would be gracious enough to do so. The jingling of bells and the crack of whips and yells drew her attention to north side of the square. Passing through high gates behind which crouched a rambling collection of thatched roofs and rough stone walls came a number of finely decorated sledges filled with noble men and women who sat stiffly ignoring the growing crowds, blankets cross their laps and bodies hidden under piled furs that left just their ripe rosy cheeks exposed to the cold, while before and behind the carriage guards sat with naked blades across their laps, a rather excessive display of force. The Jarl's palace she guessed, and shrugged unimpressed.

Directly across from the palace stood the Frozen Hearth Coaching Inn, the famous (or infamous, depending on your point of view) home from home for many a traveling mage with business at the College. It was well known that any alchemical ingredient or magical tome one could desire could be purchased there, for the right price. She watched fascinated as a boisterous party of human youths in college robes spilling out of a tavern as a run, laughing and carrying tankards, their cheerful voices turned to yells as the rumbling carts of merchants splashed mud on them, their yells turning to curses, and curses to a scuffle which brought the town guard running, blades easing from scabbard and fear written across the faces of the guards. Serana was shocked at the reaction, and twisted in her saddle to watch before the scene disappeared into the crowd behind her.

They carried on along the road, deeper into the city passing hawkers and fishwives rubbing shoulder with mages in college robes, and Serana looked at them with interest- Redguards, Altmer, Dunmer, and even a few of the beast-folk, cat people to be exact, seemed to be represented amongst the college, and she was surprised to see that their kind was allowed within the walls. She stared second more, having rarely seen the cat-folk in such a mundane setting before turning away and checking her horse, unwilling to be thought of as some backward country girl. They did not seem welcomed by the humans of Winterhold, who watched them warily, and she did not miss that many of the elves and beastfolk walked in tight watchful groups while their human wizards wandered in loose alcoholic packs. But as they rounded the corner Serana stopped dead having finally found the view she had been dreaming of, a sight commensurate with her dreams and ambitions, and ability to wonder.

The barbican of the College towering before her, almost as large as Volkihar keep by itself, perched upon the edge of the cliff where hundreds of feet below crashed the waves of the Sea of Ghosts upon the rocky shore. A ramp lead up to a gate marked with the seal of eye of Magnus, protected by pair of towering circular towers that sored a hundred or more feet into the air, the individual stones of its construction fused together with magic, seating them without mortar such that not a crack showed. Even without extending her magical senses she could feel that they have been bound with wards and charms against scrying, hostile magics and a dozen other ancient spells who purposes alluded her initial investigation. She sat awed at the slender bridge that spanned from cliff to rocky precipice upon which the college stood, the pillars upon which it had stood fallen away but its arches still holding strong, stones bound together in defiance of elements or gravity through the sheer strength of their magical enchantments. She looked again at the Eye of Magnus picked out in stonework above the gate and shivered at the unblinking Aedric symbol, the Sigil of Shalidor, a mage whose skills had even been legendary in her own time. Beric never mentioned that, she thought to herself.

She tore her view away as their carts stopped by a small coaching inn. Dismounting and throwing her reins without glancing at the rushing stableboy, she hurried stiff legged and relieved her most precious cargo. Buried under packs and bags, well hidden from view sat a lockbox, triple locked and chained to the floor with links of ebony as thick across as her thumb from which she retrieved a carefully wrapped package containing three elder scrolls, the most precious items in all of Skyrim and the college was about to receive them for free.

Beric stood next to her, one hand guarding his purse, another on his sword hilt, he watched the peasants that came and went around them with a bored but guarded air before turning towards her. She felt quite tired and giddy as she held their scrolls between them and give the bag a little shake, rattling them. A small smile played on his face and she laughed to see it.

"Let's go see what these are worth."

* * *

"Your unexpected arrival yesterday seems to have brought about a great deal of mistaken excitement." Mirabella Ervine said querulously, succeeding in ambushing Serana. She had been walking half in a dream under the mage-light torches, running her fingers over the tightly packed bookshelves filled with stained grimoires and precious hundred-year-old tomes as her feet skipped across the intricately tiled floor in what was by far the best appointed mage quarters she had seen since her mother's laboratory. Their late arrival yesterday evening had resulted in a rapid and belligerent interview with Head librarian, a dusty suite of guest rooms opened for their use that night, and their rapid admission to the college, complete with the College Robes. Pulled into an early morning reception so far she had not had any opportunity to explore, and she was now being interrupted in her curious investigation of the Arch Mage's office.

"Mistaken?" She replied politely, curious at the rather abrupt statement, picking at the cuff of her crimson and cream merchant's dress, a suitably sombre and conservative garment for such a ceremony, and much more comfortable than the college robes they had been given that Beric was wearing.

"Yes, Tolfdir has taken a few of his adept level students to Saarthal and has yet to return. When we heard the celebrations of your arrival many assumed that they had finally arrived safe out of the ice fields."

"Wait…Saarthal?" she replied shocked, the lost city was ancient even for her, and she was beginning to feel a little foolish as Mirabelle continued her lecture. An orbiting servant carried a tray of goblets pass and she grabbed one and drank deeply from the golden wine but waved the nibbles away, while a member of the Thalmor shifted indiscreetly amongst them, as welcome as a chaurus.

"Yes, Saarthal, first city of the Nords and ruined during the Night of tears. Tolfdir, Registrar and our Master of Alteration is justly very proud of his discovery. History is a passion of his and it should provide unique opportunities to research ancient nordic society. They were due back last week but we have yet to hear anything from them."

Serana didn't really have much to say to this as, and her eyes roved around the room searching for an escape. Beric stood across them, where he was deep in conversation with the Orc Librarian over an empty goblet and did not catch her desperately darting eyes, the orc motioned a servant over, whispered something and gestured at Beric. Her eyes darted elsewhere to the three elder scrolls that stood gleaming and golden where the caught the light from the high arched windows on their stands next to the Arch Mage's desk and she gestured towards them.

"I hope that the endowment of three Elder Scrolls to your college was some compensation for your worries."

She sniffed at this. "I would be more relieved to hear that our students are back safely." She replied, but before Serana could say another word an aged Dunmer in elaborate robes swept down upon them.

"Ah Arch Mage, we were just talking about Tolfdir's discovery of Saarthal."

"Are ancient nordic ruins a particular interest of yours Serana?" he asked her pleasantly, his red eyes burning under his bushy eyebrows.

"I think I've spent more than my fair share of time in them." She replied sarcastically, forgetting for a moment that fact that this Dunmer was now her superior, and she reddened as her unthought rudeness. However, his eyes glittered with amusement and he took her comments with a good humour.

"Ahh yes, I could see how your past adventures and skills as a conjuror would have that result. I imagine that the possibilities of studying the Draugr in such a place must be a fascinating experience."

"I think after all the time I've spent in them I'm prepared to be generous and allow another the pleasure." He laughed cheerfully at the thought and opened his mouth to reply.

"I was just saying that we were awaiting their return, and many in the college are concerned about their safety." Mirabelle interjected again, and Serana wished that she could leave this conversation.

"We must be patient for news, and accept the fact that progress often comes with a cost." Savos Aren grumbled, avoiding Mirabelle's eyes.

"Research and advancement should not have to come at the cost of lives. What do you think Serana?" Mirabelle asked, suddenly turning on her.

"Oh…well. In my experience, knowledge and power have only ever come by ambition and won through struggle and risk. 'Nothing ventured, nothing gained' as the saying goes. Besides, I'm sure that Tolfdir and his students can handle whatever they find- I've found alteration mages to be surprisingly useful on the battlefield." she gestured to Beric, they glanced at him briefly before turning back to their argument.

"And yet so often such a mindset leads to unnecessary losses. The college cannot afford to continue to lose promising young mages to silly mistakes and accidents made by those who lack the necessary level of skill, knowledge or experience and seek to show off to their peers."

Serana scowled at this, but bit her tongue. How dare this woman lecture her, thinking her some naïve child playing with their first spellbook on their name day! during her living life she had been faced with people doubting her abilities, from her family to the court and the common folk, and even in her undeath any number of people still dared to presume themselves her equals or better.

"Yes, yes, Mirabelle. You've made your point to me about this many times." The amusement in Savos Aren's eyes was gone, and she could tell he was embarrassed at being lectured by his staff in from of a new student in this way, and Serana felt a warm approval grow within her for the old Dunmer- doubtless a member of that race appreciated the gifts ambition and struggle brought. Mirabelle seemed to take the hint.

"Very good Arch Mage…Forgive me, but I have other duties to attend to. Serana your examination for Adept study will take place Turdas next week, you should receive details later today."

With that she stormed off. Savos Aren turned to her, a reassuring smile passed over his face as he tried to reassure her.

"Please forgive my Master Wizard's concerns, she has a Restoration mage's sensibilities and is rather on edge covering Tolfdir's job while he is away. Unfortunately, these past years a large number of our most recent novices and apprentices have lacked the necessary talent and have met with an unfortunate number of accidents. For my part I have long accepted that a few apprentices incinerated here or there is simply the price we pay as mages to weed out those who lack the skills to succeed…and that reminds me…..."

At this Savos Aren clapped his hands sharply three times and the polite buzz of conversation that had filled the room died quickly. He walked into the centre of the room, standing before the massive desk that so dominated the space, just next to the Elder scrolls on their stand. He cleared his throat a moment before starting, savouring the attention.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I would just like to take this opportunity to say a few words before we get too carried away with our day drinking." Polite laughter from the attendees greeted this comment.

"Today we welcome back one of the most promising young mages of our generation- Beric Stone-Strider. When he left the college two years ago to continue his apprenticeship studies with the Dawnguard we all hoped that he would return to us one day, but we little dreamed that he would meet with the successes he has seen since leaving our fine college. He joined the Dawnguard, where he fought alongside the Dragonborn and was there to oversee the destruction of the vampire menace, the defeat of Miraak's cultists and the death of Aldiun. Not content with those minor triumphs, Beric then joined the Imperial Legion as a tribune, winning honour, glory and a battlefield promotion to Praefect in recognition of his role in securing an end to the Civil war which has plagued Skyrim…"

Savos Aren paused for a moment as applause broke out from amongst the assembled staff and select guest. Serana had to stifle a giggle at the delicate blush that was reddening Beric's cheeks and the visible discomfort he was evidencing at having his achievements listed.

"…Throughout these encounters he has been joined by Serana, a mage of unparalleled skill in Conjuration and Destruction magic. While she has not attended the college, she has made a decisive contribution to all of the Dragonborn's victories, and her many magical achievements have been noted by all of us at the college."

Polite applause welcomed his remarks and Serana found herself blushing just as Beric had, and he flashed her a thin smile from across the room. She had not expected to be singled out, and felt a mix of gratification to hear that her peers recognised and appreciated her talents. However, she felt embarrassed all the same. Savos's praise was bland, as much of her work had been in the shadows of Beric and Beren, and she had been given little public recognition by the great powers of the land, not a thane, a house or a housecarl. However, the room grew still at Savos Aren's next words.

"There is however a mammoth in the room that we must acknowledge. The Elder Scrolls and the cost it took to recover them from their secret places. We owe an eternal debt to Serana and Beric for the recovery of these scrolls, but most of all we owe the Dragonborn, Beren Stone-Strider, and his tragic murder last month in Whiterun. It was his wish that the three Elder Scrolls were to given to the college upon his death, for the good of all future generations. I would ask you now all to raise a toast to his memory and in thanks of his generosity."

Goblets were raised, gold and gleaming in the unwavering magelight as a solemn toast rippled across the room for the assembled guests.

"To the Dragonborn…to Beric stone-Strider." The toast rippled out as the guests down their goblets. Serana glanced at Beric quickly, worried how he might take this reminder of his brother's death. She had gone out of her way not to speak of it, and he have avoided any conversation on the topic altogether. He looked still at the mention of his brother's death, first clenched at his side and face grey.

"I am proud that both Serana and Beric will soon start their studies here as Adepts. They and the three Elder Scrolls have arrived at time of change for the college. It is true that the college has struggled these past few years. Our decision to remain neutral during the civil war has been unpopular and we have suffered much. We have trained few new students and many of those have been lost to us from a number of accidents. But we must remember we are not alone in this, how all of Skyrim has suffered in these past few years, and how with the return of peace we must all now make our best efforts to put such unpleasantness behind us. We must all move forwards together rather than allow the past to weigh heavy upon us. We should take the arrival of these scrolls as a symbol and the means of the way ahead. Of the bright future that beckons to us as we focus upon research which will place us at the forefront of magical development! It is the time for us rebuild our reputation and return our college to its rightful place amongst the foremost Magical institutions in Tamriel..."

Savos's words had wetted Serana's interest and she listened with respect as they chimed with her own desires, and she felt momentarily torn between her desire for public recognition and the fear of discovery that all vampires face. She allowed herself to indulge in a harmless daydream for a moment, and her mind's eye the opportunities unravelled with lightning speed before her- unknown magics discovered, mastering the dark arts which she could not practice in Whiterun for fear of their aura attracting the priests and adventurers - the opportunity to investigate legendary lost cities and loot their treasures, fighting with Beric at her side- she would put him to rights. Together they would accomplish such things in magic to impress the idle doubters who still placed her reputation on beauty over brains- she was more than a mere Elisif in black and red! Here and now, she could make a name for herself as a mage, separate to Beric and Beren's own fame but their equals in glory - as was her right as a Daughter of Coldharbour. And with that chilling reality swept back, and she was surprise at how the party had grown still and the air stale at Savos's words and Serana could see many of his guests wear polite expression of interest, or to put it more bluntly, veiled expression of disinterest. Mirabelle looked positively uncomfortable at his words, while the Thalmor agent wore an expression of polite disbelief.

"…Now I can tell from Urag's expression that I have gone on for far too long, and we all know what his patience is like! This is not the time for politics and policy but for celebration and renewed acquaintance. So, to them both we say simply 'Welcome home!'" enthusiastic applause and laughter greeted the end of his little speech as Savos Aren one again raised his goblet in welcome. A gentle patter of conversation resumed and Serana attempted to hurry across the room towards Beric but was intercepted en route by Savos Aren once again. He gently led her to a quiet corner as a look of concern and curiosity playing across his face

"Now then, I had hoped my dear that you might entertain an aged Dunmer a while longer and be able to tell me some news from Whiterun."

* * *

It was with relief that Serana was released from the Arch Mage's interrogation after an hour's interrogation, politely yet persistently insistent upon an account of the Dragonborn's death and the riot, before a never-ending stream of question on other issues. Departing with Beric side they were given a note from Mirabelle, giving details of their examinations and explaining that they would find their luggage moved to their new rooms. Serana, jumping down the steps three at a time left Beric to hurry after her as she raced down the great staircase, carefully carrying under one arm a heavy black leatherbound book and waving questions about it with the other. finally, separated from guards and Arch Mages and other distractions, she had Beric alone, and it was past time that they rebuild their damaged friendship.

Standing in the great courtyard under the statue of the great mage Shalidor, Serana got Beric to gradually explain the general design of the college, pointing each part out as he went. It was made up of four great towers connected by a thick curtain wall lined with cloisters to allow easy passage even in the depths of winter. The Gatehouse which connected the college to the outside world by its slender stone bridge was where the college servants lived and worked in shops and offices. The Hall of Attainment was next, and was where the novices and apprentices studied during their first four years of study. The Hall of Countenance was where the more senior mages lived and where Beric and her would be given rooms as adept rank mages.

Lastly there was the keep. Beric had explained that was divided into numerous floors but was often thought of as five major levels corresponding to the landings of the great staircase-firstly a basement dining hall and kitchens. Secondly the ground floor Great Hall of the elements which held lectures and important ceremonies. Serana had peaked around the open doors to the great hall and saw it could have held the entire college twice over with ease. It was a large, light and echoey room with huge arched windows and row after row of benches divided into eight groups that rouse level by level around a central magical well. Above that was the library, covering numerous floors and was the largest library in Skyrim. It was massive beyond belief, with high arched windows maybe a hundred feet high, between which stood bookcases that rose from floor to ceiling, crawling with walkways, ladders and spiral staircases over which students crawled like ants. The entire library was circular, and surrounded a circle of desks where the library staff worked, overlooked by an elevated central pulpit from which the chief librarian was perfectly position to observe every nook and cranny within its massive holdings. The fourth level was the private collection, where the treasures of the college were kept and the Elder Scrolls would be secured. Serana had seen the nondescript corridor that led to it, and burned with curiosity to dart down its throat and learn its secrets. At the top stood the private residences of the college professors, the guest rooms and the Arch Mage's quarters. All four of the college's towers were joined by the monumental curtain wall, into which was built study rooms, classroom and laboratories where the mages of the college mastered their crafts through practice, research and trial and error.

Lastly, below them all was the midden, a dense and confusing run of tunnels, underground caverns and forgotten ruins that honeycombed the ground below them. The first few levels had been modestly explored, but beyond that their layout was unknown. It was not helped by the fact that search teams send down often reported that the rooms and layout had subtly shifted, that the map themselves seemed to change even as the ink dried upon the parchment. The exploration teams sent down there had a bad habit of losing people for unknown reasons, if they returned at all. Given what had lurked down in the Volkihar Undercroft, she could well believe the rumours were true. Secret and embarrassing experiments abandoned or allowed to run amok, to say nothing of the insane lost below. Perhaps she could persuade Beric to accompany her below for a night of adventures and bloodshed, it would do him good the world of good to exercise some of his aggression in a positive manner.

Standing in the courtyard, she enjoyed the dense low clouds that blocked the hated sun from their pale skin. Hidden in the lee of the high curtain wall from the worst of the wind their little world was filled with an unhurried air as robed and cloaked students meandered either alone, deep in thought or in excitable packs talking merrily to their friends. A few nudged each other and pointed discretely at her and Beric, and even without her sensitive ears she would have ascertained their topic of conversation. He still looked worried and distant after the Arch Mage's speech, and she felt worry grow within her as he avoided her eye. Sat together on a bench she gestured broadly as at the breath-taking faded grandeur that surrounded them.

"Beric, how can so many students afford to be here?"

"Well…Not many can to be fair…. A few pay the college's fees in full like us, most of them are the sons and daughters of nobles, or are loaned the money by guilds and banks. Others were like me when I first arrived, 'college boarders.' We paid a lower rate for bed and board, working off the rest of our fees enchanting trinkets and brewing potions for the college stores. There's also the 'Jarl's Scholar's' who have their fees paid by the jarls and usually are apprentices to their court wizards. They have it made. And a very, very lucky few from poor backgrounds do very well in the entrance exams and get a scholarship." He spoke reluctantly at first, but warmed to the subject and seemed to enjoy the distraction.

"How many people attend the college?" she asked quickly, keen to keep him talking.

"About 500, maybe a few more. They say that there used to be a thousand or so back before the great collapse, ever since then the college has had trouble attracting new mages."

"How is it that there are apprentices here and also outside the college? Didn't you carry out your apprenticeship with the Dawnguard?"

"I finished it there." He clarified, "Normally people study for four years here, first two years as a novice studying general magical practice and theory and then spending two years as an apprentice studying under a Master of one of the schools. After that students continue their apprenticeship outside the college, offering their skills to court wizards or Guilds. When you think you've learned enough, you come back and have a crack at your Adept exams. Or at least that's the theory, few people return now- they can't tolerate how the Eight Masters' dictate what you study. Often those that return have to suck up to one of the masters and indulge crack pot schemes to make sure they stay at the college. It's not uncommon for students to fall out and then be forced to leave when the master drops them from their classes. I can't wait to tolerate Tolfdir's latest lunacy." He shrugged, and seemed to say the last sentence to no-one at all.

"I know magic is unpopular but I would have thought that would make it all the more likely for people to come back. At least here it's accepted, celebrated even."

"A few come back because they love it. Many then leave because they hate it. but most of all people struggle to find reliable work. Families will usually take their sons and daughter back, sure. But few guilds want to deal with the unpopularity of employing a mage, and many mages get seduced by their power. It's easy to practice fashionable schools like destruction, conjuration and other things here, but those skills don't pay well outside of certain jobs. Some become adventurers, some mercenaries but most eventually become bandits, then people fear mages even more. Besides the Thalmor use magic, everyone knows that."

"What about the Jarls? Surely, they need mages, or the Imperial Legion"

"Most leave that to their court wizards, and they've got their scholar's remember? They've selected their successors sometimes years in advance. Those who leave and can fight join the legion, or the Dawnguard like I did but few trained here have the skills to be spellswords or battlemages. High Rock and Morrowind is where the legion gets their best recruits, they're trained from birth for that sort of magic there. Overall, it's hard to find work as a mage in Skyrim."

Serana nodded agreement. There was a world of difference between the safety of classroom spell-casting and the carnage and confusion of the battlefield. Looking around it seemed that few of these students had ever worn armour or swung a sword in anger.

"I never really thought about it." she mumbled.

"Some of us are lucky, others not so much." He said it without heat, but Serana felt a little awkward.

"Is that why you became chose restoration magic then?" she asked quietly curious.

"Yeah."

"I have a hard time imagining you being happy as temple-healer. I image it would be running it like an army camp within a week." Beric living out his life in some placid shrine somewhere, swinging a censor and wearing temple robes just seemed wrong and Serana wanted to laugh.

Beric gave a bark like laugh "the job might not be the most exciting one around, but have you ever seen a temple healer go hungry? I became a restoration mage as I gave up the possibility for ever being rich for the certainty of never being poor or hungry."

They sat in silence for a moment, ignoring the bustle and shouts of the college around them as she fidgeted while her dress. Beric was in a mood, and seemed to be building to something, and she had no wish to rush him into his apology. Besides, she had never really thought about how she would sell her own skills. Few Jarls wanted a Battlemage for a court wizard, most wanted their futures read, potions brewed and amulets enchanted. Between the Dawnguard and serving as an auxiliary mage to the legion she had never really worried about her future or where money would come from.

"So…Serana. I wanted to say something." She stopped fidgeting and looked up, relieved and expectant.

"I'm sorry." He began, slumping forwards to hold his head in his hands, "I'm sorry for how I behaved, how I treated you in this journey. I'm…I'm really struggling with this. Since Beric died, it feels like the last link with my old life is gone."

"Beric, I know you have, but I'm trying to help."

"Yes- but what can we do? the Dawnguard and my old patrol comrades are all dead, or scattered, and now I sit here, every day alone with you. Other than Dervel and Rona I can barely find any of my old friends from the college. Sometimes I see something, and think about what I would say to Beric if he were here, the funny jokes and stories I would write in a letter to him, and then I can't."

"How often do you think about him?" she asked quietly, worried deeply. She looked around and was relieve to see most of the college was standing round the gatehouse, utterly ignoring them on the far side of the courtyard.

"Every day I force it to the back of my mind. And then at night, I get no rest, and my body tells me I should be awake, as is only natural for us now. But when I sleep, I see him. His body dragged in on a common haycart, the terrible gash in his throat smiling from ear to ear, and the look of surprise on his eyes. And then he wakes, looks at me and gives me a terrible double grin. And then he tries to speak, and the wind whistles through his throat, gurgling. and then I wake up." he finished lamely

"Oh Beric, my sad little fledgling" she said, half heartfelt, half exasperated as if he was the only vampire to be haunted with such dreams. "You need to let me know these things. When I turned, every night my childhood wet nurse returned in my dreams- staring at me with betrayed eyes as she held her hands over the bite I had taken out of her neck. These dreams come from Coldharbour, to test us with struggles and challenges. In times, we overcome them, and they pass. In time, it gets easier, and we only remember the good times as the pain leaves us." She pulled him into a deep hug, and felt his hands puller her close, she could feel his arms stiffen and shake around her, and when he moved his head away from her shoulder, it was wet with his tears. He sniffed, and looked away, embarrassed and red faced at this public display.

"I liked being on the road this month. It was like the adventures we had together before all of this. Long days under the sun, the threat of a bandit raid or a troll hiding around the corner to keep us sharp and watchful. Lying next to you in our tent or sharing a room in the inn. Its everything I've missed. And that helped me forget, for an hour, or half a day. And then sometimes I would remember that I forgot that Beren was dead, and it would all come flooding back. And I don't want to keep arguing about it." they were silent for a little while. "let's go out tonight. Into the town. Put all of this behind us." Beric suddenly announced, looking up at the pink and red evening sky.

"um..." Serana responded, worried as she watched Beric come to some sort of decision, nodding to himself and sitting up straight. "Well that would be nice, and you can introduce me to…Dervel and your other friends"

"First, we should find out what in oblivion that is all about."

She looked up, and noticed for the first time the large crowd of people around the gatehouse staring and yelling through the arch towards the town, bringing others running from towers and keep. The scene was curious, and drew them from where that sat to stand to the edges of the crowd where they were ignored but they could not see what held the crowd's attention. An excited hubbub ran through the air, she caught snatches of conversation and none of it made sense. She looked curiously about the densely packed mass of students, as if that might contain some clues, and as she had never seen so many of them together before. Nords seemed in short supply, with Altmer, Breton and imperial well represented and even a few beastfolk present. There were even a few Khajiit scattered amongst them, and wondered how they had entered the college from the city. Perhaps Elisif and her new jarls installed were proving more progressive than the old Stormcloak order.

Suddenly there was shouting and jostling in the crowd, as it surged forwards in response to some new sight, and she stood on her tip-toes to see. She could feel it to, deep within her blood, the blood of Coldharbour was subtle with its power when at rest, the better to entice its prey, yet now it sang as the magicka within it roiled. but frustratingly she could see nothing. Yet just as they pushed forward the crowd was forced back again. Angry voices were raised as people tripped, and then silenced. She could hear the sharp intake of breath around her.

A huge mysterious ball was levitating out through the gatehouse. Five feet above the heads of the crowd and banded with angular writing of some archaic script unknown even to her. It spun, lazily about its axis, as its insides swirling blue-white with some mist pulsed oddly. Here and there lightning flashed silently across its domed surface, soundlessly contained within that strange translucent material. Over the heads of the crowd she could snatch glances at the few mages who followed it. There was an elderly Nord in splattered college master's robes-that must be Tolfdir, and a few others students in college robes- a Khajit, an Orc, a Nord and a Dunmer. The crowd opened up before them as the young orc woman manipulated the energies holding the Ball aloft, and the massed ranks of the college followed with silent curiosity as they crossed the courtyard in the most curious parade that Serana had ever witnessed. The cavernous doors of the Keep opened before them, and then they were swallowed within, the doors slamming shut. With that thunderous rush the spell of silence was broken.

"What do you suppose that was?" someone around her asked.

"Did you see that Orc woman?" Beric nudged her and she nodded 'that's Ghagra, Durag's sister. I'll leave a note with the porters for her to join us tonight- we should get the news straight from the horse's mouth."

"What about all the other people?"

Beric shrugged by way of reply, turning and hurrying back towards their rooms in the Hall of Countenance. Serana glanced at the others and followed, quickly. They sketched out a quick plan, she wanted to unpack, and he planned to change quickly, dash around the college to search out old friend and then they would head into town to discuss the new development.

"Do you suppose all that is why Savos Aren was talking about a new future?"

"Yeah, it's his hobby horse, bring the college back to his rightful place in Tamriel. To be fair, I don't think it's a bad idea. Magical research would keep the mages out of trouble, and if that means fewer bandits then I suppose I'm happy."

"Difficult, tricky people those mages." She gave him a smile, and he raised an eyebrow in reply.

"What is he trying to do?"

"The college has been struggling for some time. After the great collapse a lot of the mages left or were killed and their experiments abandoned in the Midden, now who knows what's down there? Since then standards have dropped and there's been far too many accidents. After Savos Aren took over the college he's always been on the lookout for new magical artefacts, something that will attract mages and money back so that he can rebuild the college."

"You don't sound exactly sound enthused by the idea." She said, confused. Beric turned and she was surprised by the intensity of feeling that burned in his eyes.

"He's desperate to make this place the equal of the Psijics or the Synod, and thinks a big discovery will let us stand shoulder to shoulder with them, that we'll win the respect of Mages and the people of Skyrim. But Nords have never cared for flashy magics, we're a practical people. Now students spend their time thinking up get rich quick schemes or researching hidden prophecies while practicing destruction spells to satisfy their master's scheme's. Sometimes we forget how many people here sneer at restoration, and how many people out there need it. If we showed people why they need magic then fewer people would be scared of it."

Serana listened to this rant.

"Well…he's got the scrolls now, and Saarthal too. Hopefully he's happy with that."

"Would be hard not to be." Beric grumbled. She looked closely at Beric, and not watching where she was going slipped. She fell quickly, jostling Beric as she did so.

"Serana!"

He caught her roughly, awkwardly in his arms, just as the heavy book slipped form his grip and slammed upon the flagstones, snow and ice scattering away from it. she stared, its title and author smartly scrawled in silver letters across the black-leather bound front, burnt into her mind now she was face to face with it. _Tamrielic Lore. Yagrum Bagarn_. She slipped herself from Beric's grasp, knelt and picked the book up, curious. Several pages had been flagged with loose paper whose ends twitched in the wind, and a quick brush away of fallen snow across the front revealed the subtitle: _A list, Compiled by the Last Living Dwemer, of Ancient Artifacts_.

"Are you going to give me that back?" his hand, scarred and callous hovered in front of her face. She stood. A nervous silence descended upon them, as she passed it over quietly. Beric snatched it back, checked for damage or stains and hid it away in his bag, anger flaring across his features. Serana was embarrassed and confused. Most of Beric's reading material were more practical than theoretical, _Imperial Legion Drill, the_ _Fundamentals of Magical Physics,_ or _Wards and Wartime._ They walked in an awkward silence as she thought. She looked up, saw his face. He was embarrassed, upset, she could never imagine him reacting in this way for fear of the Librarian's reprisal for a damaged book. She opened her mouth to ask, but Beric had cut her off.

"Serana I don't want to talk about this." he turned away from her and spoke over his shoulder.

Serana reached out with a hand to turn him around, but he shied away out of his grip, determined, she reached out and poked his arm with a slim finger.

"What you need is a project. Not something Tolfdir or the others have you doing. Something we can work together on, would that help?"

"Why do you say that?" he looked suspicious, and embarrassed.

"Oh, magical research keeps mages out of trouble, and that means fewer bandits."

"Who said that?"

"Some man I know…" she called teasingly over her shoulder as she walked towards the hall of Countenance. "Now, are you going out, or am I going to have to entertain myself tonight?"

* * *

The clink of pottery mugs and noisy conversation filled the taproom of _The Merry Apprentice_, a small tavern just a short five-minute walk from the College Barbican. The room was crowded, with college students and fishermen who lined the bar or sat at closely packed rickety tables, both seeming to tolerate the other's presence in exchange for plentiful alcohol and a bowl of hot chowder. Serana took a speculative sip of suspiciously cheap wine, winced and put down the mug. Beric had succeeded in rounding up a few friends and on arrival had been cornered by an Imperial named Proculus, who had fought at Dawnstar as a spellsword under Dagard Hardshore. Their conversation was quick and urgent. Beric was busy ticking of former classmate on his fingers, putting names to fates as Proculus related what he had discovered since term had started, catching them up after their late arrival. Yisra-unknown Rundi-missing, Borvir-missing, Llas-Tei-missing. Alof-dead at Dawnstar- the only one whose fate was known for certain. A Stormcloak Proculus said, and now Madena had awarded the position of Jarl's tutor to him. He sounded bitter at his good fortune.

Serana left them to each other's company. By the sounds of it, he had struggled just like Beren had when they had come home to war to find their friends that had grown rich and fat at home as they sat out the war. But she could not just leave him tonight, Beric was the only person she knew here. Besides, she was worried what might happen to him if she wasn't there. Whenever a raiding party had returned to castle Volkihar the parties they had thrown in the Great Hall had made the rafters ring with screams and laughter. Old friends and absent friends have a habit of encouraging people to drink more than they should, and maybe Beric wasn't in the right frame of mind to turn down a good distraction like a few bottles of wine. Most of all, she feared he might slip. His self-control was admirable, but lose, drunkenness and bloodlust were a dangerous mix for an unsuspecting city. But in the end, all of these thoughts left her with his other…old friends, this couple.

The pot-bellied Breton and his Redguard wife who sat before her were a complete mystery to her apart from the short introduction she had been given during the walk to the inn. She was thin, with kindly eyes and a quick smile, and sat carefully in her chair. He lounged by contrasts, and looked like a foppish knight, with his great cavalier wave of auburn hair and aquiline nose well suited to attracting and sniffing out ways to mis-spend his inheritance. Together they looked at her with curiosity and jealously. She could sense them wondering how she had earned her place at the Dragonborn's side. She had heard the whispered rumours before, mostly by those who had never seen her in battle, and could sense their thoughts running in that direction. First, they would ask her age, and then about magic, and she was keen to avoid such questions.

"So how do you know Beric, Dervel?"

He looked up surprised at the question, and passed a hand through hair, the fine sheen of it and his gleaming rings catching the light.

"Ha, we studied together for four years! Did our novice classes together, and worked together on a few projects as apprentices, though he was more interested in Alteration and Restoration, while Rona and I wanted to pursue our interests in Alchemy and Enchanting- much more lucrative than healing warts and all that. What about yourself, how did a woman as young and smart as you end up alongside that old grump?" he playfully pointed at Beric who didn't catch the gesture, still absorbed in the old war.

"Oh, well I met him in the Dawnguard."

"Nasty times." He said gravely, quickly, and he waved the thought away dismissively like a bad smell.

"You could say that," she raised an eyebrow, though Dervel didn't seem to notice as he started speaking.

"I told Beric to leave it, but he said he needed the money, and once he's decided on something then that's it then. As for us, well, Rona and I had left Skyrim by then, made ourselves a nice little home in High Rock for a while. We didn't want to stay what with the civil war and all, the Stormcloaks were bad for business." Rona shuddered at the thought, but that might have been the wine she had just sipped, and leaned in.

"You don't know what it was like here back then." She said in an earnest undertone as she looked around the crowded taproom anxiously. "All those Thalmor agents crawling over Skyrim, Stormcloaks thugs shaking us down for the cause, claiming it was the 'magic tax.' And it only got worse when Ulfric rebelled- we had made our home here, in Winterhold and in Skyrim, but that was the last straw. We just didn't feel safe anymore. But when the war was over, we decided to come home. Try as we might to forget it, we missed this crazy clifftop town. But the moment we get here and think everything was safe under the Dragonborn peace he dies and Winterhold hangs three Dunmer as Morag Tong."

"Morag Tong?" she asked confused.

"Daedra Cultists of Mephala out of Morrowind. A rumour blamed them for the Dragonborn's death." Rona said, her voice a whisper barely heard above the thrum of the tavern crowd.

"Well they're more like an organised guild of assassins with official government approval to operate in Morrowind and contracted by the great houses-" Dervel jumped in loudly, the eager light of correction gleaming in his eyes. Rona looked around in alarm and shushed him with her hands, and Dervel had the good sense to look embarrassed. It probably didn't do for a mage to know too much about that sort of thing, just like necromancy. Serana suppressed the urge to roll her eyes, offered a thin smile and reached for another sip of wine but remembered the taste and stopped. Rona spotted the gesture and smiled.

"I don't blame you-I wouldn't either. Their wine is awful, but their ale and rum is excellent. Sadly, there's few places that sell good wine in this city- and fewer still who appreciate it! but well be moving on soon, Orthorn and Ghagra will be joining us here."

"How did you end up running around with the Dawnguard mob then?" Rona asked, though she could tell from the tone it was motivated by a macabre curiousity.

Serana had prepared an answer to this a long time ago, and it came out as if by rote.

"My family used to live on our estate on the northern coast, when it was burned to the ground during vampire attack, we fled to Solitude, I met Beric on the road at Dragonbridge and joined the Dawnguard as a mage. Spent the next few months fighting at his side and just got used to it."

"By the Divines how awful! I'm sorry Serana. Did any of your family survive at all?"

"Well my mother Valerica runs a perfume and apothecary shop in Solitude, and my father died in the siege of Castle Volkihar.…I'm sorry but I don't really want to talk about this anymore."

There was an awkward pause and Serana looked around the pub for a minute, it seemed to be taking Orthorn and Ghagra an incredible amount of time to get here. She looked back and saw Dervel and Rona's clasped hands on the table, their gold wedding bands winking.

"So, you and Rona met here then?"

"Oh yes, first day, first year. We met as a pair of novices, both new in Skyrim. We started courting when we became apprentices, and we got married as soon as I returned to High Rock, my father was not supportive of the match, As he felt I could have married better, but I told the old man that it would stop me asking him for cash if I had a home of my own and well that was that!"

"He sounds important- who is your father?"

"Oh, he's Duke Tristaine of Wayrest," he said with the carelessly tired air of a man who expected people to know exactly who that was. "He met my mother on campaign against the Orcs a few decades back when she was the daughter of the local mayor. He recognised me as his son and paid for my education. He always said there was a space for me to become a knight or a battlemage if I wanted to stay at his castle, but I just wasn't interested in waving swords around and all that rubbish."

"Beric! By Malacath let me get a look at you!" a cheerful bellow stunned half the room, as an Orc woman with a dirty gambeson and arming sword belted over her college robes pushed her way through the crowd, followed by the most depressed looking Altmer she had ever seen. She ignored the shouts of anger at her passing, and pulled Beric into a bear hug. Calling for ale from a harried looking serving girl who had come to deal with the disruption as the Altmer tried to apologise to a trio of angry fishermen, she spun a chair around, sat down and peered at him closely.

"Last time I saw you were waving goodbye from the Windhelm road gate. How have you been?"

"Well, surviving I guess." He said with a careless shrug

"Thriving is more like it from what I hear- Tribune then Praefect in the imperial legion, battlemage of renown and one of the richest men in Skyrim." She grinned broadly as she teased, punching him on the arm at his humility in evident good humour.

"Ah well." he said lamely. He shrugged embarrassed at the attention, while Ghagra looked at him steadily, until he looked her again in the eye.

"Durag is well by the way, he wrote you a letter. He's well enough, when he's not trying to burn the house down that is." Beric gave a mirthless chuckle that died on his lips.

"I was very sorry to hear about your brother. He must have been a great man if he was anything like you, and I wish I had had the chance to meet him before he died. I always remembered how much you spoke of him, how much you missed him while you were here. I am sorry you had so little time together." She said suddenly, quietly with heartfelt emotion, and Dervel echoed it with a quiet 'hear hear.' Rona gave a smile, her eyes soft and shining.

"Thank you. I think you two would have gotten on well." he gulped and looked away, a hand playing with the hilt of the dagger on hip.

"I don't really want to talk about him right now, let's just… let's just have fun tonight, forget about all that for the moment." No one interrupted him, and he bravely continued. "What about you- I don't remember you being one much for dungeon-delving. What was that floating ball? Where did you find it- that's a story worth hearing" Beric said abruptly, leaning forwards towards Ghagra, curiosity writ across his features as he took in her warlike and dirty appearance. They could both smell the adventure on her, the stink of the road and the grave musk of the Draugr.

"Ahh, well its fucking big! And it's a good story, but we'll sort that in the morning. Work can wait, let's celebrate first. Let's get fucking smashed."

Serana wrinkled her nose as Ghagra downed the pint that was offered her in one, belched, ordered a pitcher and started working her way through that. It was with alarm and regret that Serana realised that she was going to have to stay and join in the celebration, and consigned herself to drinking beer for the rest of the night. To her relief the beer proved to be drinkable, very drinkable, and she ordered another pint before they walked off into that star light night, a lack of blood leaving her lightheaded. The night became a scattered jumble of images stuck in her head.

They found themselves in another smoky pub, quieter now that they had left the fishermen behind. Ghagra had pulled Beric away at this point, and they talked quietly for a moment about half a dozen things- many of them things they had promised to leave until tomorrow. About his brother's death, and the dagger. Ghagra paled to look at it. About Psijics, and Draugr, amulets and ancient magics. Beric shook his head, pointed to her and she looked away. Rona and Dervel were asking about her and Beric. She had not expected questions about Beric, and she felt a blush rise in her cheeks, and they laughed as their questions gently poked and teased her innocent babbling. She watched their silly games, ordered another beer and leaned against Beric as they sat together on a bench. She watched a Ghagra beat a half dozen Nords arm wrestling, and went to order another bottle of beer. A drunk Nord cornered her, speaking loudly into her ear and an insistent gleam in his eyes as he tried to pull her towards his friends, laughing and egging him on. Beric rescued her. A quick punch sent the drunk Nord Spinning. Spinning blood, blood that flowed red upon the floor. One of his mates stood too fast, and collapsed as Ghagra belted him hard in the belly.

Then they were out into the street, cheering as snow fell upon their heads. Beric was laughing, his cares washed away, they lost Orthorn then. She watched as the rest of them left for the next pub and urged them on. She left them for a moment, following the drunk man down a side street abandoned by his friends, he turned in surprise, she caught the lewd gleam, then the fear in his eyes, the sudden fear before he tried to scream as he caught her sharp grin by moonlight. He shuddered in her fierce grip at the sudden violence of her assault, her fangs deep and bloody in his neck as his blood jetted down her eager throat, gulped away with a grateful shudder. She left his body drained and forgotten in the gutter, food for the dogs. She returned, found then again and saw Beric being carried shoulder high on the shoulders of Ghagra and Orthorn down the main street, banging every tavern sign on the way, she ran after then, whooping and laughing. They climbed onto a roof, low and flat enough for them to sit dangling their feet off the edge and pelting passers-by with snowballs. It was all good fun until Ghagra ended up on the roof of a pub, and swan dived into a 6-foot snow drift that proved to be a snow-covered pile of manure. Between the laughter, the swearing and the cursed smell they decided that that was an end to the night.

* * *

Serana woke with a groan at light stabbed her eyes and pain lanced her brain as light streamed through the window, its curtains unhelpfully un-pulled. _Damn all Brewers!_her tongue felt thick, her mouth dry and her head swam as the room spun around her, and last night's dress was bunched up around her thighs from kicking in her sleep. She pulled the thin pillow over her head, but it was musty, and light pricked her hands and naked calves. Blearily, she kicked the bedclothes away and stood, stinking of smoke and drink and sweat and pulled the curtains shut before collapsing from the effort. She dozen there for several hours, before she eventually pulled herself from her bed, found both her shoes and stockings (unhelpfully kicked or thrown into opposite ends of her small room) and set out for the bathroom, desperate for the revitalising effect of warm water and soap, the product of recovered dwemer pipes and magical ingenuity.

Walking back and forth from lessons with the other hopefuls looking to enter the college as Adepts, and long periods of study in the Arcanaeum and her small private room. The college was superbly well provisioned, with the alchemical shop in the Gatehouse even having a small supply of preserved Daedra hearts, a luxury she had not seen since her mother's laboratory. however, as she quickly learned the learned the rhythms of the college gave her little time at the moment to enjoy such opportunities. They had a punishing week of orientation lecture and revision lessons to prepare for the examinations. Their evenings were often taken up with a mix of jealous meet and greets with Eight Masters and their chosen adept and expert students, and she found it a harsh awakening from her previous privileged positions. Here her previous rank meant little, and many seemed to sneer at the thought of 'her' achievements.

She leaned that her examination would be divided into practical and theory, and It was with relief that far from an examination in all of the eight schools of magic, she only had to select the three that she wished to study in depth, as well as pass a more general examination of basic magical theory to demonstrate her competence. Many of those taking the adept examinations alongside her twittered away concerned with how best to catch the attention of one master or another, weighing their personal interests and considering what spells to demonstrate in the practical examination, which was always supervised by one of the Eight. She paid it no attention, and played to her capabilities as a witch, taking Destruction, Conjuration and Alchemy.

However, none of these were lessons Beric was taking with the result that they often only saw each other at the start and end of the day. Outside of lesson Beric often joined, but at other times he disappeared, and he frequently returned at odd hours of the day and night, the bag he carried straining with books. She was affronted by such secrecy from her fledging, but now was hardly the time to deal with it. Beric seemed determined to pursue whatever it was he was researching in secret, and she was frustrated that yet again he seemed to be hiding his misery and his secrets from her.

She found that many of the peers undertaking the lessons alongside her treated her with a mixture of fascination, disdain and arrogance. She, turned at eighteen and passing herself as a maid of twenty, was sitting the same examinations of many who were now in their last twenties and early thirties. Her many early errors of understanding in their theory lessons cemented what many of them seemed to have suspected. That far from the rumoured magical prodigy, she was merely a half-skilled cultist from the frozen north, ignorant of the finer points of magical academia and fit only for the rough and tumble of the battlefield. The excellence that she displayed during their practical lessons cemented this view. Even her solid, albeit not inspired performance in the theory examinations did not change this view, while her excellent practical marks hardly seemed to register with the bored looking Breton master of Conjuring, who seemed disappointed that her interests lay more in necromancy than in the plains of oblivion.

She had hoped that with the exams behind her, the issue would be at an end, but after finishing a particularly bruising conjuration theory lecture one day she found herself left alone as she walked across the courtyard. Many of the students had seemed to come to the same view as Phinis, viewing her practice of practical necromancy as dirty and workmanlike in comparison to the elevated theoretical debates they held on the nature of the Dwemer's disappearance, on Sunder, and Keening, and other topics which she half understood and interested her not at all.

She walked, head down from to avoid the Sun's evil glare. The common mages she cared little about- if they wished to avoid her, then that hardly mattered to her. But it was Beric's old friends and Beric herself that were the issue. Rona and Dervel she met during alchemy classes, and they were pleasant enough but seemed more interested in the fine points of academic study then their practical application. Dervel's long-winded lectures to her served only to irritate her more, as did his cack-handed approach to potion making. Meanwhile Rona seemed to be more invested in following the literature to the letter, and seemed aghast when she created potions from memory or with subtly different ingredients and mixtures to those proscribed by the senior mages. They argued frequently over it, and eventually both simply stopped interfering in the others business and kept their conversation light and superficial, one day she overheard Dervel describe it as a_ Modus Vivendi_, whatever that was. Orthorn had taken a quick interest in her, but seemed disappointed when she refused his offers to join a half dozen other schemes which all seemed to centre upon studying together, alone. Just as quickly his polite interest waned, and he soon spent much of his time in with another Altmer woman who looked like she sharpened her chin with a grindstone.

She stopped and sat, armed crossed and lost in thought on a bench. The reassuring mass of the curtain wall blocked the worst of the wind and snow and left the courtyard a shadowed oasis. Finally, there was Proculus, Ghagra and Beric. Ever since Tolfdir had returned from Saarthal, they had been huddled away, surrounding Tolfdir like disciples to a prophet. She had offered to help, to both to them as a group and one by one, and as a group and one by one they had refused her help, Beric last and most hurtful of all. she had not spoken to him for a day and a night after that. Attempts by other students to discuss their work been met with polite refusal, and when the Thalmor advisor called Arcano had started questioning them many dropped the issue altogether. While the power and presence of the Thalmor in Skyrim had been greatly reduced by civil war and the destruction of their Keep at Northwatch point during the vampire crisis, many students still feared them and their power. Rona told her that three of her classmates who had been less than discrete about their worship of Talos had disappeared in the night.

Then, suddenly, breaking the stillness around her she heard the great bells of the college begun to peel in exultation into the crisp autumn morning air, answering the ringing of those below in joyous celebration, just as the wind send snow eddying around her. The crowds of college students in the courtyard stopped, and she saw others pouring out from the halls and classrooms. From out the great keep came the Arch Mage and his entourage, stalked by the Arcano. Breathless, a college student came sprinting into the central courtyard, climbed up onto the statute of Shalidor and yelled his news to the audience.

"Aela is pregnant! The Dragonborn has a child!"

Cheers and a deep murmur greeted this news. With a scowl the Thalmor withdrew at a barely dignified pace, the black hem of his robes swishing behind him. Some took this as proof of the Thalmor involvement in the Dragonborn's death, and jeered him behind his back. Serana stood shocked, her mind racing. It had been commonly assumed that with the Dragonborn's death his line had ended and with his death the dreams many had had of a line of dragonborn kings and emperors. Many had blamed the Thalmor, some Morrowind, alleging revenge for the staggering numbers of dark elves killed in Windhelm. A few quietly murmured that Elisif was to blame. But with a child? An avenging son? Serana's mind raced in time with the whispers of those around her at the possibilities a healthy child had before them.

Beric. Beric had never mention that Aela was pregnant, and given how she had kicked them out of the house it seemed unlikely that she would take him into her confidence. Sudden thought filled her- did she want news of Beren's still living legacy entrusted to some college student? She would tell him, and see the joy spread across his face, and relieve him of the deep gloom he had once again dug himself into, hiding away in darkened library and pouring over books. Some memento of his brother's life still lived, something that he could defend, tie him to his former life and shield him from the beast and the rage and the bloodlust that claimed so many fledglings before they reached their hundredth year.

She rushed off, checking his rooms-empty, the Restoration practice room-empty, then the Alteration study, where Proculus told her he had seen him in the Arcanaeum, researching books on Arch Mage Gauldur. She shouted her thanks to him and dashed for the Arcanaeum, dashing from the north cloister across the courtyard and ignoring the confused looks and shouts, throwing the doors open, and heading up the great staircase. She jumped the stair three at a time, dodging those on the stairs and ignoring the enraged shouts of students tottering under piles of weighty books.

"Beric!?" she yelled, crashing through the doors into the calm of the Arcanaeum, sending dust motes swirling into the narrow beams of light falling from the windows.

"Shush!" several students looked at her open mouthed and scandalised, some were already hurrying away before the wrath of the librarian could descend.

"Beric! Where by Oblivion are you!"

"THIS. IS. A. LIBRARY!" Urag shouted from his pulpit, scandalised that someone had dared violate the placid sanctuary of his library, already the drones behind the desk beneath him were filtering towards her, promising the terrible punishment of a severe scolding.

"Serana? What's going on?" a voice sighed from behind her and she whirled around to find Beric, tired and dusty standing an few steps down from the landing for the private collection. She rushed to him, ducking out the library and up the great staircase, leaving behind Urag's enraged yells about lack of manner and good breeding echoing behind her.

"News from Whiterun! it's all over town and I came as quick as I could! Aela's pregnant Beric!" she started forward, then drew away from him, puzzled at his lack of reaction, and suddenly conscious of the presence of other students watching them.

"What?...oh." She took a step back from him watching his eyes where the guilty truth swam. "You knew already." She felt foolish, and felt a faint embarrassment warm in her cheeks. "Why didn't I know, why didn't you tell me?"

"Beren didn't want people to know, it was still too early when we left. Aela must have decided to make it public soon after we left. The news must have finally caught up with us." He shrugged, looking embarrassed.

"And you didn't think to mention it on the road?"

"Beren didn't want me too." He said steadily, unwilling to yield the point.

She looked away, embarrassed and uncertain. He didn't seem particularly excited by the news. Didn't seem to have any reaction at all other than guilt. She felt terrible, to have been excluded and forgotten in such a way. Ever since she had known Beric, they had been utterly open and told each other everything. She had found it a relief after the secrets and lies of her own family, and the muted suspicion and hostility that still flavoured the letter she and mothers exchanged. She turned to leave.

"Well. I guess I'll go then…"

"Wait, Serana." He fumbled "I-"

"Beric? What's going on?" Ghagra had appeared above them on the staircase that led to the private collection, he turned, frustrated at being interrupted.

"Aela is pregnant Ghagra. I'm going to be an uncle. Serana and I were just talking-"

"Oh. Beric congratulations! You can tell the others and we'll celebrate the news tonight after we've finished." She then turned to her, looking passed Beric to address her directly. "Thanks, Serana, that was really kind. Unfortunately, we've got to run-we've work in the private collection, but we should be finished soon- well see you tonight yeah?" She nodded, turned and began heading up the stairway towards the private collection's landing. They hurried after, drawing them away from the eyes that still darted from the Arcanaeum's open doors.

"Wait! Wait!" Beric announced once they stood by landing for the private collection, its actual entrance half-hidden down a shadowed corridor. He looked pained, glancing back and forth between the two of them, before pulling them into a quiet corner.

"Divines, wait Ghagra! We need Serana for this project Ghagra. We're not getting anywhere."

"Are you kidding? Even after all your begging Tolfdir barely wanted to give you a key to the private collection, even after your brother gave the scrolls out for the college. I had to stick my neck out for you."

"And I appreciate the efforts, really I do. But it's Serana you want. Not me."

"Why? We need to keep this a secret- you, me, Savos, Tolfdir, Orthorn, Proculus, the others, there's already too many involved. Then there's the Psijics and the Thalmor and every other witch cult and mage guild snooping about. Do you have any idea what they've found? What it could mean if it gets out?"

Serana looked dubious. Whatever it was, it was far more interesting than musing on the nature of mundus, it would be dangerous, and probably lead to a fight or two, but she could scent blood a mile off and what use was that gift if you didn't use it? she spoke up.

"Beric and I have kept secrets these past few years that would turn your hair grey. Secrets of war, politics and magic. Do you know how many I have killed to keep them? Can you say the same, Orc?"

"Thank you for that, Nord. I don't mean to be rude but given your background why should I take you on? What do you know of magical theory, or natural philosophy, or theology? What do you know of the Aedra, and the Daedra and their works? I need scholars, not spellswords." She turned to leave down the corridor, and seemed to expect Beric to follow alone.

"Enough, Serana, Ghagra. Enough." Beric snapped, standing with Serana to look at Ghagra who now turned and seemed to be almost blocking their path down the corridor into the private collection. He spoke, low, insistent and determined. Tired of their games, their arguing.

"Do you know why you need her? Do you speak ancient nordic? Can you read and write it like your mother tongue? And of the old stories, of the old ways- mage-priests, clans of housecarls, their chieftains. Serana was brought up on such tales of bravery and heroism…and as for all this about the Aedra and Daedra…" he glanced at Serana carefully, and she gave him just the slightest of nods. "Just because you live in Skyrim and worship your one god loudly and proudly, do not lecture me that there is only one nordic religion. I've met a lot of people who follow the old Nordic faith, and others who worship the new imperial gods. I've met Dunmer dragon cultists, and Nords of the Morrowind faith, and other stranger worshippers from odder religions. Trust me when I say that Serana knows how the world works. That she has walked the plains of Oblivion, of the Soul Cairn and conversed with the Ideal masters. Trust me that I speak the truth."

Serana felt a rush of pride at his praise, and Ghagra looked at her with interest, the searching look of a Daedra cultist who suddenly recognises their faith in another, but guarded by suspicion as to which master, she served. She had little doubt that Ghagra would never guess her dread Lord.

"Swear it to me then, by Malacath."

"I swear it, by Talos."

"And you Serana?"

"I so swear…by the Vampire Mace." Surprise. Terror. Anger. Disgust. They all flittered across Ghagra's face for an instant, before disappearing behind the mask of calm resolve. Beric was looking at her strangely, then let out a long, slow breath.

"I suppose that's enough for you then Ghagra?"

"Aye. Let's to work." She turned on her heel and left, almost rushing away as she disappeared from sight. Plainly that was more than she bargained for.

"Beric?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you."

"No Serana, Thank you…And Serana. I'm sorry. I wanted to include you in this earlier, but Ghagra's terrified of betrayal, somehow already the Psijic's found out what we're about and they're…communicating…somehow. Ghagra only trusted me because of Durag's letter. And I think after that little display, she trusts you entirely. You two must be the only Daedra worshippers in this place."

"Ah. At last, a friend." A small smile twitched the corner of her mouth, but Beric didn't return it. Ghagra had disappeared up the corridor with startling speed, leaving them alone.

"Well?" she asked, gesturing for them to follow Ghagra, curiosity growing within her. "Shall we make a start?" she prompted, hurrying past Beric. They had still not explained exactly what it was that they were working on, and why her particular set of skills were so critical. It must have something to do with that sphere.

They reached the end of the corridor, to find Ghagra leaning against a heavy door of Dwemer metal, large enough for a centurion to walk through, it stood out of place amidst the cold grey stone of the rest of the college. Warded and sealed, there was no doorknob, or keyhole, merely a regular, imposing wall of rivets hammered into the metal that dully reflected the light of a single flickering torch sconce. Serana reached out with her magicka, felt the power built into it, the strength of it's magic standing like a cliff before her, throwing back all attempts to understand or penetrate what stood behind it. To her senses it did not seem to be a pocket or bubble of protected space, like so many magically shielded rooms she had seen, and like the one she had created herself back at Kyne's Rest estate. Instead it seemed as though nothing stood behind the door at all- as though it had merely been bolted to the wall as a curiosity as you might see in the public gallery of Calcelmo's Museum. Her brain told her that was impossible- there must be something behind this door, an entire level of this keep cannot simply not exist if the floors above and below were to stand, and yet all her magical sense told her that was true. She felt fear coil within her, as for the first time since her arrival at the college she stood face to face with something commiserate with her expectations of genius. If it was Shalidor who had placed this door here, and the pocket of non-space to nowhere that stood beyond it, he deserved his fame well.

Beric removed an intricately carved key from a chain around his neck, before pressing his bare hand to the metal seemingly at some random point. He stood absolutely still for a second and she watched, transfixed. Then light flashed around his hand, and he stiffened in pain, she saw his shoulder twitch as the muscles below went taught, and then he relaxed with a sigh, and drew back his hand. An imprint, drawn in red light of his hand remained upon the door, perfect with every minute detail of his palm and fingers drawn upon it in glowing red. Every line and swirl glowed starkly upon the dull surface, before fading from the inside out, until there was just the faintest outline of his hand. Then the red light ran and spun, swimming across the surface of the metal, twisting into a keyhole. The key entered, twisted, clicked and was withdrawn. Then that light too was gone.

There was a quiet whirling and clicking from the door as cogs and levers pulled, and a faint swish of oil filled pipes. Silence, followed. Then the door swung open on silent hinges and they stepped inside.

Everything stood in contrast to the openness of entry to the library below and its invitation to enter and to learn. Here they entered a corridor like she would have seen in Castle Volkihar, ominous and emanating a sense of watchful eternity. Where much the rest of the castle had been lit by the wavering poor light thrown by candles, or else lanterns with panes cut from shattered proof ox horn, here the once again the rooms were lit by that curious unwavering lantern light, as she had seen in the Arch Mage's quarters.

They stood in the shadows of two great Gargoyles that looked down upon them with cold carved eyes. The hallway was low ceilinged and lined with lockers, shelves and drawers, and every twenty feet or so heavy iron doors stood closed on both sides, named with indecipherable numeric codes. There were precious few books on display here, and those that were stood chained in place. They came to a large crossroads at the end of the hall. A lectern of ancient wood stood just before the centre; A book written in Daedric script with human blood bound to it with silver chains. It stood before a pentagram that had been carved deep into the stone of the floor, the exact centre blackened, and her keen nose revealed the scents of void salts and ectoplasm burnt into the stone. She shivered with excitement. They turned left, their quiet footsteps the only sound in the absolute stillness that hung about them.

"So…what exactly are we working on? And why do you need me?"

"The Eye of Magnus." Ghagra answered smoothly, saying nothing else. From the name it was clearly Aedric, and she and her family had long since turned from those gods. She had once sneered at their name altogether, although recent events had rather changed her perspective on such matters.

"And why do you need me?"

"Because this eye somehow causes the great collapse. Because the Psijics are appearing through the walls, threatening to destroy the college as time unravels. Because if you don't help, it will destroy us all."

_Ahh. Lovely._ She thought. _Another one of those days_. They turned left again, found the second door to their right and entered in the same way as they had done before.

The room was narrow, windowless, and divided into two halves. The first half was lined with shelves, a pair of desks stood, surrounded by a jumble of chairs. Books were strewn upon the surface of one desk, written in half a dozen languages, some on paper, some on parchment. On the other table stood a mess of finds- ancient nordic pottery, weapons, drawing on loose scrapes of paper of etching and low-reliefs and a mess of other recovered artifacts lying in straw in packing crates. But it was the far end of the room that dominated her attention and that she only had eyes for as she walked past the piled materials without a murmur of interest.

The eye floated as it gently spun about its axis. It did not bounce like she had expected but simply spun, slow and steady, the mist and light within pulsing to some erratic beat she could not understand, the globe bound with bands of some metal, covered in script she could not read even if she spent a hundred mortal lifetimes of study. She walked right up to it, felt the presence of it. She had expected the air to be cold near it, but instead there was no drop in temperature, just an overwhelming sense of pressure, like a stormfront coming off the sea, like when you descend from the great heights of the mountains to the plains below, or when she had striped, swum and dived deep into the seas around her home until her nose bled and the pain bursting in her ears made her scream two hundred feet below the surface. She felt something stir, deep inside that orb, a consciousness impossible ancient and vast, and for one brief moment she felt it scrape curiously against her the essence of her being, like a gentle finger run across the back of an ant. She shuddered and stepped away.

She gestured at it.

"Where did you find this?" wonder filled her voice as she stared at it.

"Saarthal" Ghagra replied, helpfully.

"Yes, I mean where in Saarthal?" she replied, rolling her eyes.

"You can read that in the excavation notes. Unfortunately, we will not be able to return until the spring. It is difficult to maintain the College's expeditions into the frozen north at the best of times during summer, and in winter it is simply impossible."

She gestured to the book covered table, and Serana hurried over, curious and ready to begin. She stopped, staring for a moment in shock at a book on the table she recognised. Before the chair closest to her sat a large black book with silver letter. Neither Beric nor Ghagra seemed to notice her, to consumed in their own conversation.

"..and I need to talk to Orthorn about his translation of _On Artaeum_. The boy needs hurrying along. In the meantime, Beric can you fill Serana in on the details? I'll let you talk to Tolfdir about it later."

"Sure." Ghagra nodded and left, the heavy door clicking shut behind her, Beric turned to look at her, and stopped.

Serana sat at the book covered table, looking expectantly at Beric. The large black book lay on her lap, _Tamrielic Lore _glinting in silver lettering on his face. she gently tapped the front cover with a slender finger.

"So, this is what you've been up to when you've been avoiding me and not sleeping?"

"Mostly."

"Mostly, Meaning yes….Hmm…" she opened the book, curious to read what this so called dwemer claimed to know, and its relevance to the Eye of Magnus. It was an anthology of weaponry from the look of its contents, a chapter by chapter catalogue of notable armaments from history, some know to her, many unknown. She leafed through towards the page marked with a sliver of paper. Noting the handsome woodcarving of the weapons described within she turned paged by page as Beric looked on, scandalised.

"Serana…"

The book fell open on the marked page, and she read the introduction with a deepening frown.

"_Mehrune's Razor_

_The Dark Brotherhood has coveted this ebony dagger for generations. This mythical artefact is capable of slaying any creature instantly. History does not record any bearers of Mehrune's Razor. However, the Dark Brotherhood was once decimated by a vicious internal power struggle. It is suspected that the Razor was involved_."

A woodcut opposite picked out the dagger, its 'Oht' etched leaf blade, the jagged crescent hilt and large black pommel stone. She looked at it confused- this was not the eye. Before glancing up and seeing Beric toying with the weapon in his hands. The dagger was unquestionably Mehrune's Razor, its picture matched, and it was no mere copy. She had felt the Daedric presence within the blade, there was no way that could be faked. She had even confirmed it for Beric over a month ago in Whiterun. Tainted blood why had she been so stupid!

"Beric…what is this? What are you doing?"

"Urag gave me the first book, but I needed more! I needed to get access to the private collection- and the Eye of Magnus was how I got it- between the scrolls and Ghagra's petiton on my behalf I got a key, and they gave me the information to prove it. I told you. I told everyone. Beren was not killed by some lunatic clown. He was assassinated. And this proves it." He held it high, the ebony blade gleaming in the steady light, wickedly sharp, before sheathing it with a snap.

"Mehrune's Razor. Lost since the Oblivious crisis. It was destroyed then, its pieces hidden across Tamriel-you can check the other books it's all there- and now reforged by the Dark Brotherhood for just this purpose. The perfect tool for a band of assassin." He lent forward, and pull another book out from his bag, excited and tapping at its pages, an account covering the end of the Oblivion crisis "Look Serana! Destroyed, but someone remade the blade. Don't you see the artistry that went into this? No clown could have made a blade as precious as this- he was given it. That means planning, it means organisation. It means responsibility." He ticked the last three points off on his fingers, the fervour of belief burning in his eyes.

Serana sat frozen in her chair, mind racing. There is no indication that the jester was part of the Dark Brotherhood, and she flicked back and forth through the pages-but then she supposed would there be? It hardly seemed smart to go marked as an assassin. There was no proof that Jester had been anything other than a madman, besides his assassination and escape and…and now the dagger. And there hadn't been any other proof of the dark brotherhood's existence for years, other than those who claimed the Emperor's death was something other than a heart attack. The very same people who claimed that they weren't all wiped out in that attack by those Penaltus Occulatus people in Falkreath?

Somehow it made some terrible sense for the first time Beric actually had evidence, and opportunity- and she wonder darkly, eventually he might even find motive. Suppose for a second you wanted to kill the Dragonborn- would this not be the perfect blade to do it with? And if it was missing, would you try without it or rather wait, and how long would it take you to recover? That could not have been an easy quest given its master and why would you make the effort unless you needed the perfect assassin's blade? She knew well what the Daedra demanded in their pacts, body, soul and her virgin blood she had pledged to Molag Bal for his mightiest gift. She froze, tasted bile, swallowed, and quickly pushed that uncomfortable thought deep and away into the frozen forgotten corners of her mind. _Focus now Serana._

She steadied herself. Where she had been chilled by fear, cold certainty began to sink in. Few weapons such as these end up in the hands of mortals randomly- the Daedra were nothing if not discerning to those who they granted their gifts, even Sheogorath for all his lunacy reserved a certain logic for selection of his champions. Today three Daedric artifacts were known to be at large in Skyrim, the vampire mace and the black star in the hands of Apraxis The Defiler, and Dawnbreaker with Serafen the Altmer, both of them legendary warriors in their own right. Mehrune's Razor would certainly have been wielded by a warrior of equal skill- or created by one- and if its wielder killed a demi-god and executed an impossible escape, then it seemed likely the Dark Brotherhood were behind it.

"What are you planning Beric?" she stood, dropping the book to the floor with nerveless fingers and hurried across to him, holding him by the shoulders gently, speaking to him in a low, insistent voice even as she saw the bloodlust flare in the depth of his cold eyes.

"It's simple I just need to find who reforged the blade, and then the Dark brotherhood, and then who paid them to kill my brother…"

"Beric…please…please listen to me for just a moment." She held his head in her hands with her iron strength, looking him dead in the eye. She would back a quest, but refused to enter into some blood-crazed suicide pact. "I understand that you want revenge. I do. Beren was the only human other than you who ever treated me with respect after he learnt what I am, and I will honour his memory through the death of his murderer..." he nodded, still and looked deeply back at her. She took a steadily breath, a human gesture that surprised her, she had not meant to bind herself so quickly like that, but there was no turning back now.

"…But, lets be smart about this, and you'll have to trust me, Beric. Listen to me when I say you're going too far, or too fast. Remember who you are and the gift you're received- we need to focus on the Eye- that's what's critical right now. Think of the gift of my blood in your veins, the time we have for revenge danger we will be in if we're discovered! I know we've never cared for the titles and positions of mistress and fledgling, but you need to listen to me now. It wants to control you, deceive you and overpower you. That's how the blood works. You must master it; you need to master it. We will have our revenge, but don't lose yourself to it. Don't be stupid."

He brushed her hands aside gently, and he held them in his own, clasped before him, trapping them between his own.

"Please. Serana. You promised me. You promised you would help. I need you now, more than ever. I'm not going to be stupid Serana. I've got a plan. I'm going to find them. I'm going to talk to them. And then I'm going to kill them. One by one. Until every last one of them is dead. And you are going to help me. I don't care if it's the Dark Brotherhood or the Thalmor or even if it's the damned Greybeards. I don't care if I have to wipe them all from the face of Nirn. There will be no mercy, not for this crime."

Beric let go and she dropped her hands. Serana looked at the eye and felt its silently judge her. Biting her lip, she turned back to Beric, and nodded.

* * *

**A/N**

Hello again everyone, sorry for the very long wait- unfortunately my work/life balance has been awful and will likely deteriorate again, so it will probably be a few months before I can publish a follow up. Please note that the text quoted from the in-game book, and belongs to Bethesda- all credits to them. I'm also an awful human being for promising to write shorter chapters and then committing myself to leave this 19,000 words monster all cut up, but I felt that I needed to get both eye and razor plotlines moving. I'll hopefully have another chapter out for October.

Please let me know your thoughts on everything, what worked well and what can be improved, and hopefully ill have a new chapter incorporating your feedback out soon.

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